By Donald Kentop

If the moon had seas, the shore might look like this,
desolate, bled grey by a wan sun.
Except today a stack of seven stones,
one on top the other, asserts itself
to strike a pose that contradicts the chaos.
It reaches my hip. Held by gravity
and someone’s will, someone’s sense of balance,
it shouts, I was here. I made this mark.

I hear you, friend, I said and looked around
for someone grinning at me from behind
the rocks. I was alone, but had a thought,
instead of signs, let’s start a dialog.

Let’s talk, so when you come back from town
you’ll see I too was here, and knocked it down.

Also by Donald Kentop:
Antoinette Bourignan, 1616-1680
Methuselah Recalls the Scent of Cedar
The Parade


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