A Stone

a poem about holding onto something

In some distant memory
         At the recesses of my mind
I found a stone.

It sits alone, apart from others.
It could have been granite, or marble;
One cannot be certain.
Its origin is unsure, lost to the hands of a clock.
New memories pass by it, sitting,
It sits alone and adamant.

I visit this stone often, admiring
Its shape.
A perfect circle.
Sometimes another memory will flash by it:
A bird, some running water.
At those times, the stone makes sense;
At least, more sense than it does on its own.

But when I am alone with it,
its Mystery
Captivates me. I am
Pulled
Into its story.
Where did it come from?
Why was it here?

It is at those times that I wonder to myself
“What on earth weighs like a stone?”