Irving Hallowell asks an old Ojibwa man if all

the stones are alive, he answers, “No! But some are”.

For the Ojibwa, stones are alive –are persons–

if they relate.

A Stone

Misery throws me out

of the house at dusk.

No destination.

Up past the defunct water works

Walking blind, tuned to mind

like probing a sore tooth

with my tongue

But something flickers

at the edge A signal

from the rippled loch.

Up and down the feannag

I move toward the something

glowing faint against the water.

A mother stone.

Ample lap, round breasts

circle of arms, small head.

Comfort calling in the liminal.

Drawing close I find she is

hairy with prickly green lichen

angled, rough and jagged edged

Hardly a lap for soft flesh.

Disappointed I kiss

her just the same.

Up along the ridge

I turn back to look

and there she is again

Glowing faintly in the gloaming,

round, inviting

very, very old.

Creature unto herself

or creation of my

orphan longing?