Awkward Little Stones

The dead shells of my nightmares will not stay buried. The plastic delights of plastic idols haunt my belief. Long shadows crawl too quick from the windows, And I find all those quaint little candles hard to light. Treading on broken sticks are memoirs of my youth. Rolling grey clouds are demanding of time and titles. Carving out granite blocks to prove my monument, And loathsome gold is the dreariest of discussions. The breeze holds my solace and my center, As it combs through the gardenias and pines. Awkward stones in my pocket; awkward stones in my head. I wish the breeze would oblige to take them all away. Right here, in this hand, is the greatest of all hopes, But there are weeds in the garden in need of pulling. Most are piled, but those that remain, are stout, Reminding me so clearly of the dust from which I came. Slaying the child of me and looking to the pedestal, Ousting the evil spirits and purifying the water, Feeling the grist of a turbid though preparatory path, I am tempted to hold the soft close and rest, but this will not do! The dalliance of a rose in moonlight, looks to me. I must not look away. I must stay to the trees, As my beloved ancestors who sang the sun in flight. I will know that there is no convincing, only knowing. I will hold my clutch of awkward stones to the heavens, So that no ill is hatched and pray the breeze take them. “Divine wind hold me now, for your love will free me! The cascade of events is the triumph of one heart made whole!”