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Skipping stones

Nothing’s so fine as skipping a stone,
Except perhaps the search for the perfect rock,
my sculptor’s vision peering into debris
for that flat, discarded beauty,
that broken part on the edge of a shimmering lake.

I find it while music blares
from a passing car, and colors dance
against the autumn sky. It completes
my hand, as if it flaked from my flesh,
and not some long dead mountain.

Summoned here by rock, lake, and sky,
more a calling than a curse, I listen.
A voice whispers that its time now,
to let loose the stone, and I obey.
It sings out of my hand, alive.

In its brief, shining moment, it dances
magically once, twice, a dozen steps
on the water’s dreamlike surface.
And then, I won’t say it sinks, but settles
beneath that dream and into my hopes.

Hope is such a magical word. I fear
I’ll need hope, magic, and time, all three,
to grant my wish that a small sparkling sea
will some day throw back this very stone,
while I still have eyes, faith, and time
to search the long empty shore.
 

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Couldn't help but thinking, I would be leaning over the bridge starting into the water, relaxing, enjoying myself, when the stone came back and hit me between the eyes;-D
 

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Ahh, I didn't see that, I would take you in with me;-))))

Picking up on the sets of three's was good John-John!
 

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I liked it a lot. One of the best poems I've read lately.
 
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