Sparkling at the Bottom

 

Wet stones 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.

Stars are named.

Hairs are counted, The

nations are a drop from

a bucket, and the islands

are dust. Stones gleaming

from the watery, winding

stream, 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,

are memorialized—other

than this poem.

 

©Bonnie Saul Wilks

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