Idle Time Approaching Dusk

 

I'm searching for the perfect stone

A flat and smooth and round one.

I'm standing on the shore alone

At last, I think I found one.

And leaning down to pick it up,

I think again of thinking

Of all the world that fills my cup

And what keeps me from sinking.

The ground is mired in despair.

I take the stance for throwing.

The stone goes up into the air.

A steady breeze is blowing.

I'm watching close to see it dance

Across the water lightly.

Defying all the laws of chance,

It sinks, but only slightly

Then skips again, but leaves its mark

Of ripples slowly widening.

A final sputter, then to dark—

The depths engulf it finally.

And so I cast away another.

It flies, it jumps so freely,

'Till overcome by drowning smother.

A shortened arc defeats me.

I walk along the long shoreline;

The perfect stone eludes me.

Regardless if it's ever mine,

The searching/throwing soothes me.

 

(© 2011 Connie S. Tettenborn)