A Broken Stone

Reflections on a childhood curiosity in a rock garden.

There’s something to be said about
those grainy stones
littering the gravelly floor
of my grandmother’s rock
garden: giant crescents interposing
the bare flat arena.

I would pick one up with
cupped hands and study the
chalkish white surface speckled
with Gray.

Its weight would roll in my
palm until I dropped it with a
Thud.


I picked one up every day
pondering its mysteries,
and let it fall after my
contemplation, quite
Disgruntled.

Until the day I dropped a
rock and it broke
Open, revealing its crystal
insides glittering like water
in sunlight.

Then like Buddha under
his tree receiving revelation
I too understood.