The Stones Remember

In winter
when the water's voice
is silenced
in a veil of ice,
I keep a basket
of smooth stones
beside my fire,
stones harvested in autumn
from the garden
all along the water's edge.
They are like letters
from a friend
and, holding them,
they hold me home again.
I do not know
if the beat
inside the holding
is my own heart,
or the memory
in the stone's heart
of the rhythm
of the waves.
I only know
it seems the same.
I only know
if you are still enough
and wait,
you'll hear the songs
the stones remember.