Wet stone sparkling at the creek bottom, you captivate me through a light-shaft prism penetrating the water. 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. I wonder how you are documented, other than this poem.
© Bonnie Saul Wilks
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