A stone in the middle of a sidewalk square
About an inch and a third long by three quarters
Of an inch wide. A little scuffed; if a rock
Can lead a hard life this one has. I pick it up
Of course -- I've been picking up rocks for most
Of my life. When I was a kid I'd bang them open
With a bigger rock not because I'd the makings
Of a geologist but to see the inside and to smell
The gunpowder smell two rocks pounded together make.
A grey stone, flat on one side, rounded on the other.
It can't have been on the sidewalk long; someone
Would have kicked it into the grass or the street.
Waiting for me, then. The round side fits
Into the hollow of my fingers, the flat accepts
My thumb rubbing it. A worry stone, perhaps.
I put it in my pocket. It may be that this stone
Was meant not for me but for Rebbe Aaron
My ancestor who was kept from floating off
By the stones in his pocket . He died in 1772
But stones, notoriously, have only hazy notions of time.
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