In the Wayback Woods

There are stones that sit in the wayback woods,

Bits of mossy gray poking up between fallen leaves,

Far, yet not too far from the neighborhoods

Where the children play and their fathers work in shirtsleeves.

In perfect lines they lay silent and true,

Resting among acorns in the shade of forest oaks,

Hidden safely away from skies of blue

And all the noise and fury of life of human folks.

I added another stone there today,

Eased out carefully from the bank of a nearby stream;

Finally free from its prison of clay,

Washed by the water and left to dry in a sun beam.

One stone plus twenty-three makes twenty-four.

Beautiful, gleaming rocks, I gave them each one apiece.

One for the lost boy who knocked on my door,

One for the young lady who almost called the police.

There are five for that family of bikers

That strayed just a bit from the old trail marked on their map.

Here’s one for the starry-eyed hitchhiker,

And one for the mother searching for her little chap.

I smile as I place the freshly cleaned stone,

Completing a beautifully perfect, straight row of eight.

Lost boys and girls you’re no longer alone,

Stranded, terrified, left behind in a world of hate.

I cradled you in my arms and brought you home,

Laid you to rest at peace with your family and your goods,

Made for you a place in this great green dome,

Nestled here, safe with me, alone in the wayback woods.