words are stone

words are stone

skipping across the water’s edge

sinking into memory

like a piece of hard coal

stuck in a seam

then found again,

held in hand, examined

before being burned on a hot grill

under the watchful eye of an

curious chef.

it was a sunny morning when i saw my first word

while sitting with my book open to page number

one, and i immediately rose

from the cafe chair to join the

merry prankster for a cup of her breakfast coffee

on the wood bridge which crossed a forest stream.

in the afternoon, the woman with brown eyes was sipping her red wine

while holding a clear crystal glass and

my blue eyes when she suddenly

reached for a smooth white stone

roundly polished by the passing of glacial time.

in the early evening, when we found ourselves in the kitchen reading the recipe,

our words kept skipping back and forth

and the aroma of animal heat made us both hungry.

it was a sunny night when we ate ourselves silly.