I will search the reality of you beyond the accident of time
Within a dish, they overlap and sleep. Wake them and lay them in a circle. Lay them in a line. Pass them from hand to hand. Touch them to your most pallid parts. Lick them. Call them. Call them in tongues. Set them in the sun. Set them in bowls of water. Summon them to repeat what they first spoke to you that made you pick them up.
Notice the brown eye on my edge, sculpted by a break. Whoever danced on me did so outside the circle. Lonely, and no real stone, I am a Druid yawn. My heat fills a portion of your palm with memory, tongued and light. I slept under the moon, entered by distances. Every kind of time poured into me. I give you the code built upon the plain.
Broken-walkway stone, Salisbury Plain, near Stonehenge
Twin singers. Pillars of salt. What memory heard during the last cycle when you called the storms by rubbing us together. Now we make you thirst. As we grow, we fill with bruises. If you drop us, we could bore a single, silent hole. Always return to our voice, as though we are a ladder. What we cannot teach you is too new.
Crystal twins bought from a street vendor, East Village
Whoever touches my fish lips with their mouth will never underestimate both sides of a heart. Taste the salt I inherited. Use me to outline. Press me until the world seems flat. Seize my scales and use me under night. You hope you will never lose me for you feel nearly perfect as I run smoothly over your skin.
Black, heart-shaped stone, Bar Harbor
I am an egg designed in creation. What can you do with me except hold me on my back. Inside, I contain the sound of the beginning. Toss me, I will infer what you wonder. Read my lines, my fine, coarse grain as though you use wind as a finger to stir sand and water into design. Like you, I too am only now.
White oval stone with brown markings, Dead Sea