He dug a hundred Mexican rocks
and touched each one of them —

washing them, caressing the smooth,
black surface, placing them around

the pond, up and down the waterfall
and building a cairn. He touched

them and, in that touch, he discovered
that they were a touchstone.

*Many moons ago, a sculptor, Episcopal
priest, colleague, friend asked, quite
out of the blue, “Do you like rocks?” I just
stared at him and asked, “What?” and we
both began to laugh. He said, “I guess that
sounds silly.” He, now having passed from
eternity to eternity, gets the last laugh.