Peace of the Rock


and plumb out of unexamined minutiae,

I collected gravel

. . .

pointed pebbles embedding underfoot as I strolled,

and bits that bit fascia

when I wandered,

and fragments that flayed feet outgrown sea glass or slipper

on subsequent trudge,

paving my sole in portable road

–without quill–

in marbles gone missing, but

not crystal balls,

(too cloudy)

and absolutely zero

diamonds in the rough

–just lacerating chips–

of a game long since retired. . .

and so many!

‘til ultimately, my collection became

a road

–in and of myself—

freeing my journey

of blinding bramble

(at penultimate last)

a way to go I built

–that goes my way—

a way yet barefoot, uphill, and largely unmapped.

Lately though, I am noticing

still greater stones along scree highway,



I’m cobbling a path of substantial stone

–and shoes, to boot—

foregoing crushing

(stones to bits)

to lessen hobble

–inside and out–

keeping an eye out for

raptures circling overhead

–looking for loosened feather—

in the breeze.

About Charron's Chatter

I bring to you an arrow, whole, Use it, or break it, But if you choose to take it --Know-- With it also, I will go. © Karen Robiscoe @1992

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: