If instead it described rain
fallen on dark soil, one pale flower
where no one would believe a seed had ever fallen
—where granite clasts —broken through
—are so slightly proud
and if this fiction weren’t actually
about forgetting or ignoring, but rather
about finding —just the one tender fact
—that stone awash in a turbulent stream
—to take it up, only to weigh it in your hand.
Tom Driscoll Writing 