In morning when the light wasn't
quite touching lake's hem, like fingers
reaching into the bottom of glass,
he spoke from the reeds and reeds
of rockskipping. How we would need
to dig maybe and be flat like
the tide. In hints of herring hidden
and hemlock, we'd find small stones, raking
then tucking them denim deep. Each
a little planet palmed and skipping
like pulses do. His heart facing
the water, he told how the secret
lay in our letting go. So we
stood back to back to the shoreline
flicking our wrists of shadows and stones
until our eyes became still pebbles.
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