There is a mountain and a stone
and the stone lies in a dry course.
Washed there, but when?
From the mountain?
Perhaps, and not alone.
There is a mountain and a stone
and as he places stone in hand,
fingers touch line and crack,
smooth and rough, high and low,
into his heart he takes the stone.
There stands a mountain; where the stone?
Replaced in a dry course
but not the same,
awaiting questions of its source
from another who seeks, unknown,
Patiently patient, they stand;
the mountain, the stone,
but not the bone and flesh, no
not the flesh and bone.
© 1997
William Davis