First I place them in a line atop a narrow
path along the side of the house.
That path grows muddy in winter,
and the stones will keep our footsteps
clean as we come to check
on the water heater, the fuse box,
the wooden gate that sags a little under a hedge.
Then I lift each stone again
and dig for it a shallow nest,
sprinkle in a layer of sand,
and squirm the piece back into place
as if it were a golden retriever
rubbing its haunches into the dirt.
All that remains is to pat the earth
around the edges carefully,
as if to say, Good boy. Sit.
Listen to a conversation about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.
Photo by Luis Rodriguez on Unsplash
