You came to the bank of the stream
and saw them spread out
through the torrent before you.

The first,
white as a fish belly
and small, so small,
said that the Way
has no sense to it, but
leads forward in any case.

The second,
black as wood long submerged,
slick as a suspect, said that
if you could risk believing
that it offers solid footing,
you would find yourself halfway there…

and the third, rusty
streaked, seated high and dry,
solitary and distant,
mumbled a secret worth hearing,
perhaps only minimally intelligible,
but still invariable and true.

The fourth stone
lay below the surface.
It was no more than a shadow
and a threat of tumbling, of immersion.
It urged and coaxed: venture,
leap, steady as you go.

That far bank was high and green
and paths were visible under the pines,
leading up toward
the sun on the high meadow,
the moon on the high meadow:
you fell in love with it at once,
a perfect place for dancing
with wet feet
and knees
still trembling from the journey.