Healing comes in strange ways,
the bundle of family and friends,
the stranger whose eyes we only met
needing a ceremony of rest
and release to clean the slate.
To carry weight is to be mortal
yet another freedom beckons.
The crows won’t tell you
nor the power over you may desire;
it’s written in a small stone
found on a long stretch of cobbled beach
as if by accident.
Cobbled beach walking; hmmm, one of my inner child and adult self’s favorite pastimes. Many of my favorite healing stones which sit on my altar came from such sojourns. Thanks for the recollection.
Don, I find your poems so very soothing. I look forward to each and
every one. This one especially touched me at this time in my life.
Thank you.
To carry weight is mortal, yes, most of us are burden with an aching that is nameless or even named, yet there is always healing. Your poem leave us with wonderous possibilites. Love it!
so true … and comforting!
Hey Don,
your poem resonated with a memory from my honeymoon in Italy. We were on a beach in Cinqua Terra that was strewn with stones, so I decided to see if I could find a memorable one in the mix. The third one I picked up had 2 perfect fine white ovals intersecting one another on an otherwise black stone. It was not until then that I was assured by the great god of chance that I’d made the right move…