Member-only story
The Inner Pool is still, its surface a mirror
sky and clouds, jagged green of spruce on the hill,
white cemetery fence neatly squared,
grasses and black eyed Susans bent by the wind
all cupped and held,
almost tenderly.
Down to the point, at my feet, where shingle beach and water,
two worlds, meet.
Caught between them, the arc of my skipping stone,
defying the odds,
a rippled chain marking each moment of connection
where worlds above and below meet on a shared surface.
Question marks etched so finally and so fleetingly.
I remember at seven and seventeen and thirty seven,
the magic of the stone thrown just so.
Learning to find just the right flatness to fit my hand
clumsy splashes at first and then the throw,
the angle, the spin,
the wonder of the touch points wide at first,
then quicker until the interval vanishes.
Again and again we played the game,
