He tripped on a stone before impassable waters, a small one, kicked it in frustration, anger
The stone then grew twice, three, four, no, almost five times its size … but was still a small stone
He picked it up, impressed, apologized, gave it a name and tossed it across the waters ahead and it bounced and bounded and giggled and skipped before settling among many other stones beneath heavy waves where it soon washed up from the bottom to become a shore
He stepped forward, humbled

A wonderful poem, ha now I see what you meant about us writing stone poems, well, well, well (checks birth cert and DNA) freaky and relational indeed in an amazing way. Love this very much.
LikeLiked by 1 person
(checks conspiracy theories involving stones and mother’s passports and old letters) HeHe. Cheers Paul.
LikeLike