Stones
Here are listening stones,
Drift stones & moon stones
All within prayer of the waves.
I touch each one
With wounded innocence;
Their wet & deep roundness
Suggests the sadness of fugitives,
Those who beg for ounce of starlight
To reclaim the moment
Of helpless hoping—born
To be cared by curious heartbeats,
Sensing & trusting
Rivers to be wise as blood.
One day, my brown body
Will emerge from the shadow of stones
With the painted voice of mornings,
Sailing in sargasso & salt,
Seeking for someone who will chant
The names of those unseen:
The flaming weed after the rain,
A pregnant child-bride,
Those fallen birds of paradise.
When shall I learn to sing
Seductively as the sea,
With the fragrance of turned earth,
And be slain in ominous spaces
By the flight of my own song?
Bay, Laguna
17 September 2009
Oregon Driftwood,
by Vince James
(Social Wallpapering)
