The pebble, taken from a riverbed,
is yellow, and although in itself
colorful, without imagination.
The pebble sleeps, undreaming of clouds,
or rain, or sun, or even remembrance
of the river.
I speak to the pebble,
but it offers no answer, only
stony quietude.
The skin of the pebble is hard
and in its dense compactness,
impenetrable
The pebble is warm in my hand.
My fingers linger on its smooth convexity,
evoking sensual memory.
................................................................Israel Lewis