A Stone

An inert mass in the palm,
egg-like, smoothed by weather,
too cold to be living or dying.

The furious energies of matter
are arrested here, made still for a moment
like a breath held under water.

In the grain and speckles of its surface
is a chronicle in miniature
of sky and earth, a prehistory

of spirit; then letting go, the invisible
magic of release and fall,
gravity’s angel in the undergrowth.

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