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, rooted.

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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