Originally posted 9/28/2009; original title, “Remembering What Four Stones Said.”

There in the stream 
the first: 
white as fish belly
and small, so small.
It said the Way
has no sense to it, but
leads forward in any case.

The second:
black, seamed as wood
long submerged,
slick as a suspect.  It said that
if you could risk believing
that it offered solid footing,
you would find yourself
halfway there.

The third:
rusty skinned, top high and dry
above the current, solitary and distant.
It mumbled a secret worth hearing,
perhaps only minimally intelligible,
but still invariable and true.

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

That far bank was high and green.
There was sun
on the high meadow,
to be followed by
moon on the high meadow.
You fell in love with it at once
from this side of the stream:
it seemed a perfect place for dancing
with wet feet, wet shoes, 
and wet knees
still knocking with joy  
from the journey,

and so it was.