the language of stones

 

I’ve heard it said that “words can only point to a feeling…”

can we ever really hear each other?

 

stones-stream-language

the language of stones

 

if I slip a word

beneath your door

could you read it?

 

stones

upon the shore, count

the skips one, two, three – more

then silence.

 

we hurtle

past each other

such a brief intersection

yet two lives may still

make a plane

 

walk with me

this weathered shore

and we might learn again

 

this language of stones.

one, two, three – more

then silence, dark waters,

winds and waves,

 

this hard, hard  knowing

before words.

 

 

© 2015 jafink/oldbones.newsnow.com

stones

stones-2

I’m old enough now to see

how I’ve lived my life in dogs,

each a sun-warmed stone

in this stream of loneliness.

by these have I kept my feet dry,

have I so far made it across.

I look into the brown eyes

of my young black dog,

and can’t help but do the math.

My heart breaks in the knowing

of that distant day when he tells me —

it is time. When do we begin

to die? not at birth, surely,

there’s such a rush to life

for so long, but it slows somewhere,

somehow deep inside of itself

it starts to slow, until one day

as we sit together talking,

this slowing shows itself

in our faces, in our eyes, in our first

clear diminishing, and then we know,

yes we know. We’ve had a week now

of cold nights and windy mornings

the clouds dropping down, scraping

the tops of the aspens, stripping them

of leaves. Snow will come soon

to these mountains, but for today,

I still have this chair by the stream,

still the sounds of the stream over stones,

still a black dog warming his bones

in the late day sun. for today,

this is sufficient. for today this

is wealth enough for a life.

 

 

©jafink/oldbones.newsnow.com