Devon Noland

I used to skip stones

When I was younger and quite stupid

Restless with the feeling

With the calmness that overtook me

Standing alone at the pond

Alone all over again

 

There was a ritual in it

In the rhythmic bouncing of ripples

Straight across the water, formerly smooth

Until, in the end, I was unchanged

Still just a child

With the stones gathered in my hands

 

But day to day it sits

That old, beloved rock

Weighing in my pocket

And hiding in my head

Much too light to feel

Way too heavy to ignore

 

So that on the muggiest of days

When summer begins to wane

But the heat in my face still lingers

I settle my hand in there

Just a brush over the soft edges

With a desperate need to feel it

 

All it does is rest there

As it fits, just so, in my palm

Familiar as it has always been

I roll it over and over

Between the grooves of my fingers

Like I could ever forget its shape

 

But the stone only feels smoother than it ever had

Worn and old from the movement

And it stays there, right there, in the lining of my shorts

As now I’ve become much older

So it must stay put aside

To remain where it was, perfectly dry