With the stones

This morning, in my dream, we sat

close together, near the smooth stones

you carried from Roundstone Beach

all those years ago.

I sat down there next to you as the sun rose

(though in truth you were still fast asleep

in the bed we share). And our hands moved

slowly over the stones, as if remembering

some ancient journey.

You told me once: if these

can become smooth and round and large like this,

knocking about in that cold Atlantic sea,

maybe we too could become less jagged,

less sharp-edged and brittle.

Ah, but now you are awake,

and the air around us

is suddenly crisp and urgent, and our thoughts turn

from the calm smoothness of stone

towards blood and skin. Today we give thanks

for the urgency of touch

that cannot wait; for all

our many rough edges: each scar, blemish and dent,

each sharp word that jolts us

into awareness of these late summer days,

turning already towards autumn—

and each particular leaf about to fall.

 - Jacques Coetzee