stones,
one on top of another,
for decades now.
Fingers
slipping over rough
granite
my heart
is settled in
simple tasks.
I have piled
stones of habit
over my days.
Praying is a stone.
Watering herbs
and gardens of flowers
is another stone.
My words have become stones
I pile to settle
my heart.
Long ago,
across the pond,
they piled stones
to find the same
simple way on earth.
There is a rhythm
to rock on rock,
a sound
that fills the
heart with the comfort
of familiar passage.
I bake my bread
and brew my soups
because they are stones
of comfort for
this old man's heart.
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