Heart of Stone
I came across a post on Substack recently—an impassioned argument that random words and scattered spacing do not make a poem.
With respect, I see it differently.
When it comes to the workings of the mind, the soul, the pulse of being—very little is random. Sometimes, a poem arrives the way a stone does … shaped by forces we can’t quite name, but deeply know.
A poem tumbled out of me as I woke this morning, cool and unexpected, but somehow already worn smooth by memory.
I call it Heart of Stone.
A little side note…
This stone, I found while gardening. It’s not unusual for my muse to call when my hands are deep in the earth. Naturally!
The larger stone was given to me years ago by someone who knew me well enough to know what such a find would mean to me.
This stone holds a heart not merely on its surface but seemingly emerging from within, as if the earth itself remembered love and revealed it to me.
