Epigraph: In winter a stone is frozen in place 
when there is a thaw there is a space underneath 
that fills in with dirt lifting the stone
the stone doesn’t work its way up to the surface. 
–Robert Thorson, Stone by Stone

 
Stones

 
Robert Thorson has a thing for stones.
Moved here from the mid west 
where there aren’t many stones
impressed with New England stone walls
he put it all down on paper.

 My daughter piles stones 
one on top of the other 
around her yard 
I tell her, I read they are prayers.

 A friend collects stones–
when we take canoe trips 
he lays fat stones in the bottom 
of the canoe. In his house
there’s no rain to rise off dust
no rain water against stone 
to wear away minerals
adding them to soil. 
Just rooms of dusty stones.

 Charlie, an artist, owned a house 
in Chester, CT
There was a hurricane, 
the water rushed quickly down 
the hill into his back yard
moving the stone foundation
out onto the front yard.
He piled stones
named them for characters 
from books, walked around 
in his straw hat 
looking like Van Gogh,
sold the house [had to].
The new owners disposed 
of his stones into the brook 
that meanders by–he had 
a thing for stones,    
the new owners didn’t.

 If you walk around 
Monhegan Island
lovers of stones have
stone by stone
created prayers.

 Not having a thing 
for stones but for 
natural things– 
a large piece of birch bark  
flowers, plants, bowl 
of broken China shards  
found on tide lines
18” wide turtle shell 
dug out of a swamp
copper plate holding her bones
a few Maine stones 
with sharply contrasted veins
little of 
this    little of 
that. 

 I wonder about those 
who collect stones— 
they hold on hard to something   
to someone.
I don’t possess the grit to hold on 
to that slipping a
way    of some
thing    of some
one. 

 Then there is the nature of poetry.

Bonnie Enes