Locked in Those Rocks


 Locked in Those Rocks


Each week on my morning walk

        I stop and look and remember.

That house was mine,

       purchased 50 years ago.

Those dominating trees

       shedding leaves

       all over the yard and street

       I planted as 30-inch twigs.

Same kitchen window I had to

       hide behind a patio fence

       now gives a snoopy view      

       of the street.

Most of all I look at the

       stream stones accent area

       that ended up saying

       the whole front yard’s sentence.

Each of those stream-rounded

       and polished stones

       was ripped from its streambed home,

       loaded into the trunk

       of a 1956 Plymouth Belvedere

       and hauled 25 miles

       to its new home.

One by one they were

       toted and carefully placed

       in a semi-circle.

Polished and moss-free

       the rounded stones

       highlighted the house and yard.

Each lies where I put it 50 years ago.

Do stones have memories?

Do they sense time and its passing?

How long did my fingerprints

       last on stream stones?

What links those stones to me?

Does anyone passing ask:

       “ I wonder who put

       those stones there and why?”

Each time I gaze at those settled stones

       I realize that my memory

       is our only tie.

Then one day it came to me.

Those stones so

       smooth and carefree

       when I took them

       from stream bed

       were now covered with moss.

So fifty years ago

       I not only designed and built

       a landscaping beauty,

       I retired a bunch

       of party-going,

       fun-loving moss-free

       rolling stones.


Doug Minnis

September 13, 2010




I moved away from 1213 Chestnut Lane in Davis in 1963. For the next 50 years I got to see the changes made as jogged and then walked and now drive by the hard labor of 60 years ago. Weird