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From father to son, the gift of stone:


Geppetto formed my heart
from a stone
he found years before the log.

He slept with the stone
placed beneath his tongue,
at night
as his dreams stole upon him
like music and smells.

That stone soaked up his spittle,
with each nightmare;
was warmed
by the morning light
that entered through the window
to redden his cheek
each new day.

During the hours when he worked,
or searched
for something to fill the emptiness
in his life
he kept the stone in a purse made
from doe skin
placed around his neck
with a thong made
from the gut of an old Tabby cat
and nestled beside the skin
beneath which his own heart

I became his child
the moment that heart
found its niche
inside my chest.
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I imagined Geppetto to be the craft of writing poetry. A process akin to dreaming while awake, and one that translates the heart’s intelligence.

But then, that’s MY interpretation. If you wrote it for me, that’s exactly what you meant to say. It was post-determined!

Thanks for sharing. I enjoyed. And it rang true.


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