Rocks lie hard-packed on either side of
the green hummock of the driveway’s center.
They are close-nestled. Each in the midst of others,
cuddled in near sand and leaf-dust.
To take one away is the work of persistent fingers
with dirty nails that pry and loosen the edges of the stone
until it pulls free, leaving behind its perfect impression,
a unique dent in the driveway. Come again tomorrow.
The pocketed stone retains its shape: lines that match
those of the hole, perhaps some hole-dust still clinging.
The hole, though, won’t fit; it holds other things:
more dust, a pebble. The rock can’t be put back.
(Whilst resurrecting poetry, it seemed appropriate that this should follow yesterday’s poem. “Salem” is a place I once called home. © Stacy Nott, 2006)