All day, the dump trucks lumber toward the lake,
young men who’d followed in a dusty Jeep
present with glistening torsos
hefting and placing, and hoisting and dropping
white riprap to line the shore.
And at night, a neighbor brings his small children,
watching fondly, standing back as they pick
up the rocks and throw them into the lake.
No doubt he’s engrossed in fond
memories of doing the same.
Or maybe he’s checking
his Google calendar, oblivious.
I have always collected stones.
When they catch my attention while walking,
I feel their desire, so I provide the Lyft,
saving them a few million years
of potential travel time.
They like to nestle in my palm,
and we harmonize in the resonance
of the carrying.
And I have quite an assortment
of clouds that I’ve gathered,
especially when, unaware they are being
observed, they land luxuriously
in lakes, with dancing abandon,
reflecting the sky’s glory.
Opening my heart to new potential
perspectives, ripping away my old
filters, until I am on my knees,
in praise of this endless innovation.
And I want to tell my neighbor,
look up! The money and hours spent
to haul in these rocks now gleefully
thrown into the depths by your children
is much too much. And I understand
that I am asking this question
of myself: When do I show up
as too much, disrespecting the created
space, my only focus: my own agenda?
When do my actions speak so loudly
they drown out the diligence,
the sweat pouring down the backs
of these workers? Why do I persist
in ignoring their efforts, crying out
for attention to my own wounds?
How can I create the inner space
to allow whatever emerges to be,
happy to watch the delicate
unfurling of a brand new blossom?
How can I help these children
look for the tiny treasures
as they jump and shout across the water?
And that speck in the air is an eagle.