Stones


A handful of stones
sits in my palm,
tiny Buddhas softly rounded,
polished to a glow of grays--
time caught
in a nugget of earth
plumped by the delicate dust
of once-living things
hardened as time lengthened.
Sunshine warmed cool colors,
rains washed them clean,
moon brushed a breath of shadow
that still gleams beneath their gray-brown surface
wise in silence.

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