A CHILD'S COLLECTION OF ODD PEBBLES

I do not mark the trail
as we go. I could
break branches, or stain rocks
but I don't.
I know I won't be back this way.

I know too that the timeless march of moss
will smother any trace
of my passing.
I leave nothing behind.
Instead I gather stones
as we go.
A jagged piece of coal. Black
and sharp. As the wing of the magpie
that feasts on the remnants of our April day.
A smooth pebble, speckled with the laughter
of moving water and June gladness.
A piece of quartz many-faced
as our unborn children.
A common brown stone, simple
as our affection...

These I take with me.
These are moments I can
hold in my hand and drop
through my finger-years. These are
feelings I can see and touch.
These I take with me.

And when their weight
becomes too much for me,
I'll build a cairn
of these chips of mountain
and sea-bed.

The Indians say
that stones have life,
and I shall lie down convinced
that it is true.

-Mary Taylor Vida

The Days Of The White Sun, Fiddlehead Poetry Books 1971