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