Poem: The Stone Is Turned Over

The Stone Is Turned Over

and then again.  It sits,
always in hand,
is always there
to be turned,
to see again
the hidden side
once more,
and then
to look upon it
and wonder
at that now gone,
the concealed half
that rests against
the palm's fleshly pillow,
darkened by its own shadow.
Turn it again, look, see:
it has not changed,
has not been worried 
into a new shape.
It will take more time,
turning it again and again.
It is already smooth,
was worn down long ago
before it was plucked up
and carried this way.
It will last, can be turned
and turned and turned.
It is a solid thing.

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