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

    Garry Cardinal, mailto:mail@garrycardinal.ca, http://garrycardinal.ca/