Hymn of Stones

As I sit and write to you, it’s dark.
I’m in a coffeehouse: reggae, earth tones,
teenagers.  Night stands up behind
Rincon Hill like an old man rises 
from beside his bed after praying. 

I think of your delicate throat.  There are
Christmas trees for sale outside
in the parking lot.  I should mention
that I love their smell, mingled as it is
with car exhaust and tar.  I remember

your face, like fog in a morning orchard;
so gentle and still and forming in my mind
until the trees begin to ring.
A hymn of cold stones
may answer from the shrouded hills,
but we will be asleep by then.

 

Creative Commons License
Hymn Of Stones by Kyle Kimberlin
is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution
-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License
.

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6 thoughts on “Hymn of Stones

  1. This is so poignantly reminiscent of something which is just beyond the reach of my finger tip grasp …. hauntingly enchanting.

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