The Stones Cry Out

It’s early May
Apples are the size
Of a small toenail
And Beer beach
In the baking hot sun
Beckons the unwary
Into its bone-cold water

Beer Beach

Three boys, liberated
From their school desks
Two on a paddle board
Just out of reach from
The pebble-launching third
Summer heat making sense
Of male madness

Older ladies,
Impervious to the cold
Slipping in and out of the
Incoming tide
Perhaps unlike mermaids
And yet…
Perception is so deceiving

We’re butterflies on an oak
Raindrops on a hotplate
Temporary distillations
Imprinted on priestly stones
Hearing our confessions
Seemingly unmoved
Their tears fall as autumn rain