Whet Stone

Here is the poem I promised.


Whet stone sparkling at the creek bottom,

you captivate me through a

light prism penetrating the

water. Whet stone, you

sharpen my senses and strengthen

my certitudes of faith. The

birds are remembered; the

stars are named; hairs are

counted; the nations are a

drop from a bucket; the islands

are dust. Wet stones gleaming

from the watery creek bottom, if

all of you were gathered in

the skirts of heaven and stacked

one upon one, you could

never reach the throne from

which you were thrown.

And I wonder how you are

documented, other

than this poem.

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