Stone by stone,
we drag and stack,
the fallen limbs of yesterday
snap against restless winds of today.
Sturdy knees bend,
shadows sway deep blue —
our bearbag hangs, making
a moon of its own.
Stone by stone,
we sit, heavy-hipped,
hair pulled away
from the damp of our necks.
On a Narniac throne of sheetrock,
we watch the sun fold
behind the Allegheny River —
where there are no clocks to wind.
We whittle words
into an after-dinner song.
Stone by stone,
we carry packs and snacks
past pines and boulders.
Fungi faces pucker, exhaling
a sigh of smoke at the brush of a finger.
Among arching pines,
my sister crossed the creek,
a small thing,
the water stitching her
to the far bank.
Stone by stone,
we stack laughter, tears,
secrets, safety —
miles traveled,
seasons wading,
wedding bells ringing.
Then, stone by stone,
we take apart
what we built —
the small violences of offense,
punishment, withdrawal, triangulation —
the artful avoidance
of facing what’s to come.
Stone by stone,
we scatter, ruffle, run.
The wall we built and climbed
is gone.
Morning now —
my thigh leans heavy
against what’s left,
folding into cracks
as fiddleheads unfurl
toward the light.
Watching miniature ferns
bow into the wind,
I find myself
stacking again,
alone —
stone by stone.
The Word Mill 