TURNING STONES

I unraveled the henna copper
of your hair, brushed it
to a burnished fineness that spiraled 
on the pillow between us.

Later you slept, and I awake 
recalled your slow solitary walk 
in the yellow canyon below me, 
eyes down, intent on stones.

Your boots kept flipping chunks of caliche 
and you stared without expression
at the nothing there or the unnameable
things that scurried from the light.

I was afraid. Afraid you would find 
under the next stone you turned
what you didn't know for sure 
you were looking for. 

Afraid you would roll me over,
peer beneath me, disappointed 
at what you found or what 
you thought was missing.

Under the blankets your toes
nudged into the arches of my feet.
Into your sleepy ear, beneath the braided
black and copper rings of your hair,

I whispered, simply ask me, 
so together we turn stones over
and leave them naked in the sun,
with nothing left behind to bury.



© 2003 by Richard W. Todd

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