2003-07-10 - 3:20 p.m.
4:30am, Henniker. Thinking of My Father.Itís when dawnís first mists begin to rise,
and roman numerals are drawn in streetlights,
thick, waving, white,
on the black waters of the Contoocook River,
that I find myself following bent weeds
to the riverbank, where mud grapples my sneakers.
Iíve come to gather stones,
thinking of my dad reading from the pulpit
a time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together. When will I grow up? Iíve only grown older.
It is time to cast away. Each flat, smooth stone
leaves my hand and is swallowed,
first by the darkness, then by the river.
I listen as each one issues
triumphant, unseen splashes.