The Stone That Could Not be Thrown

The words that came out of my mouth today when I thought of “Independence” were not very nice.

I’m happy you did not hear them.

Will you hear these?

The Stone That Could Not Be Thrown

by jlynn

The tide has long abandoned this shore—

its whisper lost to a sun-cracked stretch

where salt once kissed root and bone.

Now only dust drifts,

waiting for a wave that will not come.

My hawk cries—but you do not hear her.

Her beak is stitched

with the red tape of men

who call it order,

then look away

as the wind silences her wings.

I hold a stone,

too sacred to throw,

too heavy to keep.

It burns in my palm

with the weight of a truth

no one wants me to speak.

Independence once meant

a hearth for the magic,

a porchlight left on

in the house of becoming.

Now it is a cage

with no door—only mirrors.

And still,

beneath the hush of polite obedience,

my voice—a raw thing—rises:

Leave me alone and let me fly!

Even bound,

I know the shape of sky.