Small Stone for 28 November, 2018

An afternoon of knitting with a friend, littered with purls and butterflies, as full of chuckles as a a rivulet finding its way through a clutter of rocks

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Small Stone for 3 November, 2018

High Summer Haiku
Sun-fired blue porcelain sky,
hissing of the grass, as the wind goes chuffing past

Small Stone for 22 September, 2018

stoneThe sun is still drowsing in bed while the new day, a fuzzy shawl of low grey clouds thrown on over its nightgown, pauses on the threshold of Autumn.  I’m already up and puttering in the kitchen, inadvertently eavesdropping on a mourning dove having a quiet little boohoo on the roof behind the range hood vent pipe . . .

Small Stone for 3 February, 2018

Today Aram Khachaturian’s Masquerade Waltz has ear-wormed its insinuating coils into my head and refuses to worm out, and my mind is a swirling mass of blue and purple ballgowns hoar-frosted with diamonds that glitter in the candlelight.

Small Stone For 2 February, 2018

If I spoke with my hands and not my mouth, if my words were framed with graceful gestures and the eloquence of agile fingers, how would I whisper secrets in the shushing darkness? When it is eyes, not speechless ears, that hang on every word, would flirtation be a tango for two hands, and anger jazz and swash like Martha Graham? Would girl talk swirl and flutter through the fingers like a restless flock of sparrows? Could I soliloquize without a mirror?

Small Stone for 19 January, 2018

Perhaps, if we knew a silent unseen thing with claws might swoop down owl-like upon us at any moment, we might live those moments with more mindful care and gratitude.

Small Stone for 16 December, 2017

stoneNo mystical phrase to murmur mindlessly until it becomes a series of meaningless sounds.  No beads to occupy the fingers with the counting out of repetitions until a mystical number is reached, with nothing to show for it all but the passage of time.

A ball of yarn in a bowl, blue mist through clear glass.  The fingers move, the thread flows from the bowl, winds snakelike through the hand, is caught up in the needles’ dance, and something useful takes shape.

In the mind’s still pond,
the silver thoughts swim slowly.
The heron chooses.

Small Stone for 7 December, 2017

Be ever vigilant. Happiness is a ninja that can strike at any moment.

Small Stone for 22 November, 2017

The cobalt blue glass from which I drink the sweet golden cold of apple juice, thirst quenching for both eye and tongue.

Small Stone For 22 November, 2017.

I went outside this morning, stepped off the porch and looked up, and the gold and oxblood red of the leaves on the trees next door, their colors richer than Croesus against the cold-crisped blue of sky, leaned down and gently kissed my eyes.  I let the kiss linger.