Skipping Rocks

Oct 26 2011

How many tries did it take

to skip my first stone?

At an age

when wonder was possible.

Before the world would become mundane

stopped surprising me.

Rocks sink,

and an unsuspecting boy

could also drop

through insubstantial water

and drown,

diving blind, unsupervised.

The treachery of water

as I had been told;

yet not always so.

A gentle chop to the surface

the ripples a purchase

for rocks,

smooth and cool in my hand

from a million years

of washing up and down the shore.

Or a dazzling mirror, as hard as tempered glass

that can counter-act

the law of gravity.

My record is 7,

until it stutters to a stop

and vanishes

for another million years.

Like Zeno’s  paradox

the arrow that goes half the distance, then half again

and never gets to the end.

At least as far

as theory goes.

And the rock

losing distance with every skip,

and me imagining

it never quite finishes.

An unsinkable rock

that may be out there, still.

Now, all grown-up

I sometimes feel I'm that smooth flat rock

skipping across the water,

the mirrored sky

the glare of light.

But never breaking the surface

penetrating deeper.

The perpetual mystery

of the bottomless lake,

its cold dark depths.

I don’t remember how many times;

but I recall feeling triumphal.

That I had acquired

this compulsive knack

that would serve a lifetime.

That I had the power

to overturn the laws of nature,

if for just a second, or two.

A mere child

toying with all the rules.

When the entire world

was delightfully new.