The Stone Thinks – Poem Post

As today is the official launch of my blog, I’ve decided to be especially generous. Here’s a draft of my poem “The Stone Thinks.” I most sincerely hope you enjoy.

The Stone Thinks
I wonder what a stone thinks.
Perhaps he’s been broken from his mother earth,
His father crust, and is now floating,
rolling,
loose and aged on a forest path.
The rain pattering, clattering,
washing the dirt clean.
And there he sits,
Confused,
wondering how in all his years,
he never thought to look up,
into the stratospheres.
Gray, vaporous mountains
of sky-stones litter the sky.
Perhaps, in his little rock brain,
he wishes to join the sky-clouds,
where they roil and buckle,
and make sounds like rockslides.
I wonder what a stone thinks.
Does he sometimes wonder of his birth?
When deep in the earth’s caverns,
searing lava and melted stone,
rolled together,
where choking gases breathed
deep, deep breaths,
into his stony chest?
Does he wonder if the Stone God
made him,
in his image?
Was he a mountain?
Did royal magma run in his veins?
I wonder what a stone thinks.
Was he meant for great things?
I wonder if the stone wonders,
if like a marble statue, he could grow granite wings.
And fly.
Fly.
Into the heavens,
where only the sky stones and the birds,
could find him.
Where only the rain,
would darken his image.
I wonder what a stone thinks.
Did he feel the small, tight fist of a child?
Did he wish he was smoother,
less rough,
so he wouldn’t cause pain?
Did he wish he were flashier,
golden or crystalline?
Did he sit in a windowsill,
soaking up the sun,
until his cool hide felt warm?
I wonder what a stone thinks.
When he’s kicked down the forest path,
by some stray boot or cloven hoof,
when he’s tangled in the wild grass,
sad that he can no longer see,
the sky-stones, in all their mountainous wonder.
I wonder what the stone thinks,
when the guardian angel of the stones,
alights upon the forest path,
the rain halting its descent,
where he walks.
I wonder what the stone thinks,
when he’s picked up, stroked,
and the angel breathes life into his cool form.
I wonder what the stone thinks,
when his stone heart breaks,
is freed,
and he takes a breath.
I wonder what the stone thinks,
when he stretches wobbly, stone wings,
and the angel sighs.
I wonder what the stone thinks,
when steel veins and hollow lungs,
carry him into the sky,
and what he thinks,
as he joins the sky stones
in flight.

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