“The Art of Lifting Stones”

My youngest son, Luke, wrote a poem, “The Art of Lifting Stones,” in his senior year of college.  I read it often.  I read it again this morning.  Have you turned over any rocks lately?  Rocks abound everywhere, without and within, and there is “life” beneath each one if we have eyes to see.  Some stones need to be lifted up and removed to allow light; others need to be lifted to see what lies under them, and then  gently replaced to protect the life beneath.  

I.

Lifting rocks in the forest marsh,

I smell the decrepit moss

and the life of the underneaths

of things as the earth’s crust crumbles.

Insects flee the light and cold air

like criminals under search-lights,

except a slug who creeps away

aloof as a glacier.

Ant refugees scurry from my eye,

tugging their larvae like luggage

over a ravaged countryside.

But they do not perceive me,

only the fear, fragmented light.

II.

My father taught me this:  to turn

over rocks on banks of streams, to glimpse

crayfish stirring in clouds of mud mist,

to watch turtlebugs ball up like porcupines,

or panic, darting into crumbling tunnels

like dreams upon waking.  But this above all;

to return gently all stones, to allow dampness

darkness, to let dreams creep

hidden under sleep, to leave things

as they are, snug in the body of God.

But I searched the streams dry

and tossed all shadows aside;

I wanted God to have no place to hide.