On the lichen-freckled slab

of a great rock in Acadia

I think -
not much happens here.

Words come at me
like handfuls of low bush blueberries

that miss an open mouth.
I sit between my stanzas

and a stack of piled flat stones.
I skim, one by one

toward my reflection
in the bowl of a far off lake.






First publication: Front Porch Review, 2016