~Rooted in the Greek word for riddle
I steady myself
in the middle of the stream
So much rain
my toes search for purchase
as I move along in the strong current
~
But I’ll not wander in the side eddies
where the slickest algae
coats the surface of the stones still idling there
passing time as if singular
feigning reflection
~
An intoxicated accumulation
of over fertilized organic matter
girdling themselves
as if they could hold on to the ground
~
My days have been emptying
full of the feeling that I’m living in two separate realities
~
More than a waiting game
too much hard evidence
~
Carrying a pack that needs to be cleaned out
and made into a traveling case of essentials
fit for traveling in even faster flowing water
~
I’ve been carrying these stones around with me for decades. The one with the impressed shells is from the Northwest Pacific coast and was gifted to me. Its partner once dwelled further south, somewhere along the coast by Half Moon Bay, south of San Francisco.
They traveled with me when I returned to the waters of the east coast, after my sojourn with the Pacific. The stones always hold a corner of one of my gardens, along with a bowl of water for the critters and birds.
The poem inserted into the photo arrived out of the blue, as many poems tend to do. It came as a puzzle and I chuckled as I considered who it could be referring to.
That is until…. could it possibly be “water”? And partner with the poem “Enigma”?
~
Poems and photo © Jana White
Instagram @ Jana_H_White
The Poetics of Light 
Nicely written. Loved reading it!
I scribble about life and people, and occasionally attempt poetry. Do check out my blog and subscribe if you like it.
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Thank you for the visit and the invitation! Cheers!
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Beautifully written, and I had to laugh a bit at how you carry around stones with you that have meaning… I have tons (well, maybe not literally tons, but a significant stockpile) of such treasures. As with you, I don’t pick them up randomly, but they must have a little story to tell – and the one embedded with shells from the PNW (my part of the world) would be such.
The poem you’ve created is made even more special by the stones’ history… The movement from heavy water and slippery stones to the long‑traveled rocks in your garden is like reality, two distinct pieces slowly braid together, until the realization that the poem might be speaking of water itself—there is a quiet courage in your refusal to linger in stagnation.
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Funny about the rocks Dalo. Treasures, no? If rocks could speak though…
I have this, almost devotional (LOL), relationship with my own “significant pile”, while at the same time I know that pushing off from the banks of a river that is only moving faster and faster, picking up speed is essential.
So I’ll take a small piece of the “bank” with me? Oh boy! You bet… Thanks for the laugh and the lovely thoughtful comment.
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