Browsing Tag


Pack a rock

By August 30, 2013 Life

We are shape shifting, we family of tardy pie-eating beachcombers.

We watch as one of us leaves, sniffle chorus on mute.

She’ll be back at turkey time with laundry, stories to fuel our days, a new posture perhaps?

Then we’ll shape shift some more.

I hope she remembers, among the mountain of junk soon to be moved into a stamp size university room, to pack a rock.


We smell the air first
the night we drive in
windows down
inhaling into hungry lungs

It’s the ocean, someone whispers

 We can’t see it.
The trees are black cut-outs
shielding secrets

We drive until the end
There is only cabin and sky
star blankets
shrouding our shoulders

We stand


Night keepers


Daylight twinkles on Fundy blue
We search for sand
find a beach of boulders
tide’s untidy leftovers

The girls begin a collection
twig arms bent for bowls

Rock urns

The path laughs at us
stumbling with our cache
Set them on a table
each day a new find

Time’s faces  these stones

No two are alike, rock girl
Like people, rock father

We hold them in our palms
smooth caress.

Rock people

Water laps at our mass
but we hold fast

© Anne Langford

* For more on grad season and great commencement speeches, see Who loved you up?

More poetry, see We were all children once.

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