I found it propped up
against an echo from
when long ago plates
converged and buckled
leaving a sheer face, miniature Appalachians
across the sidewalk. It leaned at an angle, like a cowboy
with his back pressed against the shady wall of a wooden stable
leaving a patch of perspiration. I knelt down and held it between my
thumb and index finger. It revolved back and forth between the two arching
fingers, and the smooth hardness reminded me of those perfect red marbles nestled
and ready between my fingers. Mostly they were just mementos, little globes of nostalgia
that had been passed on to me. But, one time I actually played with my grandfather and found
myself surprised how deeply satisfying it is to feel the release and watch a simple path with breathless
anticipation and the moment of glory when glass strikes glass. Last time my grandfather visited, his mind
could no longer shape ideas into compact spheres. We squeeze mysteries into tiny capsules,
everything from tree to universe. Graceful shape, at its bottom it curved like the
bow of a ship, wooden planks curved into a point to slide through rough water.
I once was told how it could be made into flour. Chop. Drop into boiling water.
Grind. There is an unspoken gracefulness in the idea that a fallen trinket could
be made into sustenance, that bounty surrounds and all we have to do is open a
small door in the great walls that we have built to close ourselves off, and walk
wherever our feet take us. Not all who wander are lost: a worn phrase I put on
daydreaming feet and walk through phantasmal trees that talk about when there
were humans who traveled with the earth, they were the first to fall to the axe,
wisdom without pages, knowledge of the living trees. I grab its feathered cap
between thumb and forefinger and give it a twist so I can see what’s inside.
The flesh has rotten away, leaving behind a pockmarked and hollow ideal,
an empty shell. I wasn’t sure whether etiquette was to hide the fact or
to tell the acorn that even the squirrels have made the switch from
the natural to the trash bin. I’m quite sure that it had tried
its best to turn into a tree lying on the impenetrable
sidewalk. Dreams need soil to grown, but
that’s something I can’t give.
The best I can do was
whisper a quiet
apology.