The Secret Life of Stones

She told me that stones lived,
crept, and even flew,
just slower than our imagined 
rate of time.

Years later I understood
how to love a river rock
like a bird, for time pulled
hard upon my beloved, until 
we were distant in the same room. 
Her breath became one unending 
syllable of a phrase I’d never hear
completed. 

“Ahhhhhhh,” she breathed,  
and if time ran fast enough for stones to fly,
she would say, “I love you.” 

I had faith enough to love
her and this life she now lived, 
a love undeserving of pity
from those who never knew
the secret life of stones. 

I came to move slower, too. 
“Ahhhhhhh,” I breathed gently,
my shoulder pressed upon hers,
too scared
to refrain from finishing the phrase, 
after a while:  
“I love you.” 

Then, last night some urban creature
dug up the fallow flower bed
outside our front window. 
When I drew aside the drapes
in acceptance of another day
behind us, I wondered
about the torn earth -- would time heal
this like a scraped knee?

I set the question free, turning away
from the living land.
The garden had only a minor wound,
and the stones of the walkway 
leading from the door
were full of thoughts and dreams 
as always.

My beloved was breathing, “Ahhhhhheeeeeeeeee....” 

I love you. 

Singing in the Car

I love singing — just playing around really, not taking it too seriously. I recorded this in the car while Willow was in Canadian Tire. “When the Party’s Over”