Philosophy of Pebbles

Stillness—right before the birds awaken
And a rustle in the flowers on the crab apple tree.

A fresh breeze that flutters across my face—
one that I don’t have to share.

Just me in the rising light,
blueness, and disappearing shadow.

Yellow filling the daffodils on the hillside
by my mother’s dwarfed Granny Smith.

And the deer out by the collection of pine trees
spring to life and bound away.

And I want the pebble in my shoe
to rattle the philosophy of ages.

Confucious, Plato, Nietzsche, Augustine.
But as I pull it out and toss it back to earth

I find myself wishing I’d held on to it.