ROCK STORIES

See the rocks
nothing but stories

Held there:
you take
your rock by the hand

They're friends about that place,
your hand wants to know
how to move there,

the rock
tells it.

They go on journeys,
the rocks telling stories
all along--

each place is a story--
see? see?

The hand knows,
wants to remember this.

Once the rocks had eyes
but then the mountain fell down
and crushed them.

The rock's eyes
went underground
with minerals
twinkling there.

Then a big sea came,
It washed up all those rocks,
it washed up all those eyes,
like fish.

All those fish lying
on top of the desert now,

telling you things
about olden time.

Rocks are words,
the words dance.

They want to be movements,
sing to the music,
that's why they look for the hand.

The hand knows
it was a place once too,
it takes
the rock-by-the earth.

Moves it,
makes
the old desert dance,

and the rocks
happy again
like grandpa giggling.

One magic rock,
two magic rocks,
three magic rocks.

I put them in a bundle,
shake them up with some spit,
put in some dog's breath --

and some wind and some hair and some leaves--

See that willow tree
over there
where the leaves just
blew off
just like that?

That's my rock doing it from here,
it's not me.


*
by Norbert Ruebsaat