Songs the Stone Forgot

Robins rest in nests of weathered knots

As alpine streams pass by forget-me-nots,

Taking with them sandstone pilgrims

Who at last have left their weary mountains

To cross this land of nomads.

All is quiet, the earthward sun is low

So that upon the northern-facing slopes,

Shadows become the bagged eyes

Of listless hills. Nestled in the twilight

Vales, an orphan adopted by the trees:

Veiled in mist and darkness, there it stands

Amid heavy holly boughs whose ruby hands

Have yearly gifted out their fruit

And made for the grove a crimson carpet

Where poses as a tree, suspiciously,

A lone and mossmarked stone wearing a crown

Of twigs and leaves and eggshells broken down.

Old and forgetful stone it is,

Senile it would seem and maybe so.

It does not remember when it was sown.

But there is one who lingers still and sings,

Long after mountain peaks and hills recede

After robin, thrush, and bluebird leave.

A minstrel, chronicler, and steward all

Whose voice an echo ages past recalls

Oh, the mockingbird, he who remembers

Who tarries telling forgotten stories

Of what before his days was wrought.

The mockingbird, the faithful mockingbird—

Sings of songs the stone forgot.