Pausing in the garden I search for two perfect stones.
It’s not truly a garden but the space around our house.
I’m not seeking perfect stones so much as the right ones.
They’re scattered over the yard, assorted stones and rocks.
Few flowers as they refuse to grow – not the snapdragons
With fragrant cheeks or lantana with miniature bouquets.
The flowers boast perfume, organdy petals, ballet stems.
The stones repose modestly, too plain to pirouette.
Withered bouquets will be tossed but stones remain.
Others will bring flowers but it’s stones I require, hard and strong.
Which of them will speak of endurance, of devotion? Aha!
The sharp edged one of umber strata, a smooth one with quartz veins.
The grass crushes as I kneel and lift my hands to place them,
One on my father’s grave, the other on my mother’s.
I won’t reveal on whose marker I set the sharp one or the smooth.
Pausing in the garden I search for quiet sanctuary.
It’s not truly a garden but the space around the graves.
I’m not seeking perfect solace so much as refuge.
Just a thought 50
Image of stones courtesy Pixabay.com