Stones

I stand knee deep in the lake of my days,
And gather a stone for each memory,
Some jagged and sharp in a hundred ways,
Some are worn smooth or are polished by me.

A few are so large they are hard to hold,
And the tiny ones slip through my fingers.
Moss covers many, having grown so old,
Though the weight of their impact still lingers.

Time and the waves push and roll in and out,
Smoothing sharp edges of sorrow and pain,
Helping me gather my stones all about,
To treasure each memory once again.

Mick McKellar
December 2024