A skipping stone, chosen with care by human hand,
breaks the still glass of lake serene;
for stones remember what time forgets,
and in their flight, recall all the more.
What does it remember?
The molten cradle of its birth beneath the sea,
the mountain’s shattering rise from the deep,
the patient sleep in riverbed and shore.
The warmth of the palm that cast it forth,
the whisper of air between each skip—
and how, in falling, it becomes again
what it has always been:
stillness beneath all motion.
Northcoast Antiquarian 