BUT THE STONE
Not the swallow diving or the sea
washing again the brown shore.
Not cloud or clover, doe
at the edge of the road. But the mountain,
maple there, the oak branch cracking
against another as it falls.
Not the carpet, the floor’s own lover, not the bed
or books showing off their spines.
Not Friday, trash day, mail between eleven and four.
Yes, onions chopped and frying, salt
licking them clear. Yes, her breath, the garlic
and the marked night upon the yard.
Not the dust body of the moth
giving itself to the wall. Not grandmother,
or dear friend’s father, gone with his antique gun.
Not Lennon or long-melting snow.
Not the house sold to strangers, not any
of those but the ground
and its stone-white stone.
fiction poetry "fact" photography