Last night stones sang me

to sleep, their soft, haunting lullabies

surrounded by the dust of

my ancestors’ bones, melodies

older than the redwood’s lofty

poem, the mountain’s

star-kissed cheek.

I tried to stay awake, hold

their words like a baby bird

in my cupped palm,

but their ancient harmonies lulled

me and slipped soundlessly

through my fingers like

smooth, wet river rocks.

Tonight I wait for stones to again

sing me to sleep, aching

for their secrets to awaken

my remembering.

Maybe then I can finally

find my way home