Stones

By Sara Kandler

I bookend my days with the pop

of a tiny white powder sphere

toward the back of my throat

then a gush of cool water.

And you, I ask my friends, don’t you feel different?

How do you process so much time past

and balance on the slender edge

of an entirely new universe?

They appear stumped.

So I meander on, turning over smooth grey rocks in the garden in hope of a hidden message

(my mom’s whimsical “hello” and “stay cool” stones giggle from my kitchen windowsill)

and stare up at the mysteriously amber stars in the deep winter sky.

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