The Stone Ship

The stone by the front door
where the crows eat—

dropping walnuts on it
from great heights,

prows the yard,
a sunken Japanese ship

surrounded by
scattered gunnery shells.

The widening pond circles
of seasons past

call out around us in soft voices
intelligently like dolphins,

scheduling our appointments
in unseen calendars

while the luminous night air
fills in the empty spaces

around the stone
now a lamp, a teapot, a dragon.

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