Stones

So while I was working on a philosophy essay about Descartes in a hallway at Trent University I glanced to my right to notice a group of weathered stones sitting just outside the large bay windows. That whole afternoon the sun and snow alternated at lacing intricate patterns and shadows accross the surface of these rocks. Besides this there was water dripping periodically from a tin roof onto the stones in that all too familiar pattern which left a ridge line of time worn stones to separate the grass from the rocks. To top it all off I was listening to some sweet Caedmon's Call songs, some of which were, Hands of the Potter, Shifting Sands, Manner and Means, etc. This all to say that I am going to write some spontaneous poetry concerning that evening. Enjoy.

Like a crimson arrow falling with the pull of gravity I fell,
To skip like a smooth stone accross cascading storm clouds,
Bent on dispensing their white, luminescent wrath upon
Stones hardened by years of teardrop bombardment.
Then, as the eye of a storm hushes the grass which meets it stare,
The stones braced, ears strained heavenward, for the dreaded wind
To bring in haste a seemingly endless barrage of snow.
Blue swirled to a deep grey, as azure was swallowed by heavily burdened
Pack horses, bound for some distant land, packages swaying in the breeze.
The crimson bolt disapeared, plunging the world into shadow, the wind,
Afraid to blow its tidings, retreats into the recesses.
And I am alone again, gloriously alone.
Grey fades to green, and I smile:
It will be back!