A stone skips through the world,
Though unseen by the common eye.
Perhaps it begins out on the road, watching the mailman with his load.
As frost comes and all grows cold,
It rolls a way, by playfully running children’s feet.
And now it’s only half the size—
Has the world a plot for a stone so bold?
And then it’s caught in someone’s boot, taken far under foot.
It listens for a bit, to shouts of children making shaky self-portraits.
It’s shaken loose by mother’s hands and slips behind a drape’s fold.
But that little stone a child spies: “A stone! A skipping stone!” she cries.
And off they run, to water’s edge, and fling the stone, now just a pebble, high past the boat,
Like a water skimmer, it skips once, twice, thrice, four, five times . . .