I yearn to see those boulders of time
Ancient tombstones, ancient mothers
I imagine their circle, and because I am a woman
I see them holding hands
Were they men who brought them over rolling
terrain to this place where women chant?

I have my piles of rocks, scattered, in bowls, vases, urns,
On table tops, in pockets, in pots of cactus holding them down
through desert windstorms.
I brought these rocks here, not with
muscles but with intention, with love and remembrance
They remind me of those ancient ones
pieces of giants for my own delight