Bottom Stone

I have a real interest in things that aren't seen. I mean, really, most of what affects us in our lives is totally invisible; other's emotional responses to us, the thoughts that compel them, what might have happened earlier in their day, what might be rolling through their minds as we're interacting, the actions of our governments or lawmakers, the incidental decisions made by people we will never meet or know that they exist that directly affect us. The myriad of things going on around us that we're just not aware of is legion. And of course, we add to that mess with our own unspoken desires, feelings, the things we keep to ourselves. We're all lakes, big or small, with things on the bottom of them.

But there's also a real envy I have for things like stones. They just are. 'Life' for them isn't complex. There's no catastrophes, broken hearts or hurt feelings. Sure, I guess there's not much else either - but there is eternity. If stones have some kind of consciousness, as certain traditions might think, it might not be a bad existence. And sometimes I envy it, even if I feel a certain communion based solely on a similar isolation as that muck-stuck stone.

So this poem is about feeling, about the unknown, about how the hidden things are all around us. I'd love to sit on the bottom of a lake for a few days or weeks if I could. Wouldn't you?