POETRY IS LIFE -

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Tuesday, May 25, 2010

STONES OF ICE

Small steps on big rocks
between colored stones
to collect.
A stream between a
mountain – as my steps
slow – and I want to
hurry – not to be alone
while tip toeing carefully
on rocks of ice.

I must watch each step
I can’t look up to see how
far they have travelled,
without me.
I have to be strong like
this mountain and not
worry about black bear
drinking from this stream.

And, as I move one small
step at a time – see brilliant
colors – face me as a sun
cuts through my path –
careful not to fall, I gather
stones of ice – of colors
like wet brick and blue,
pink and even orange . . .
stopping to glance to see
if anyone waits, or it
they are coming back
for me.

No one is there – no one
seems to care.

So I sit on a single rock –
larger then all the others
and rest as I shove colored
stones into the pockets of
my dress.

I would have worried once
about getting gingham
polka dots wet – no longer
on my mind I bend closer
to a stream to gather all
the pretty stones, I can
reach; wait for them to
find me near a stream
where I was left to collect
stones of ice, sitting on
a rock of ice; I sit alone
If only I knew then how
nature spoke.

Nancy Duci Denofio
all rights reserved

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