Meanings.

I stoop to find meaning in rocks
To trace patterns in their shape,
Their ring and cup markings,
The tree of life etched into their surface.
The permanence of their existence.
Makes me feel fragile.
I am surrounded by pagan stars
Flickering and dancing
Like fire flies in the night;
I feel as free as a dragonfly
That hovers on the edge of the universe.

I gather petals into pictures,
Twigs and stones into complex patterns,
Capture sunlight from rushing water
In the palm of my hand,
And lock away the memories of bees
In ancient honey jars.
I stalk spirits like fish under a bridge;
Their blue tapered shapes elude me,
Because they are made of tears of light,
And like meanings they slip into the shadows
And disappear.

I walk into the valley
Through strange sunlight, carrying
An old tin box full of ancient treasure:
A string of pearls, a photograph of a young woman,
And a young man in army uniform,
And a poem about a father lost in the Great War.
The tin is buried beneath an old oak
Among delving roots and rotted earth.
This is not a grave but a place of no meanings
A sanctuary of thought and broken spells.