HOLY STONE
The small white stone
I lifted from Jerusalem’s Old City
not far from the Wailing Wall
and quickly slipped into a pocket
joins upon my return
my many other free souvenirs
from the many places I’ve traveled
my Global Village of many-colored stones
tossed into a jar, not one stone
marked by place of origin
or geological tribe, nearly all
in contact but never fusing—
yet no conflicts or claims
of supremacy, so the holy stone
dominates no more than a
gray ridged stone from some place in Asia
or a cragged red one
I think I pilfered from Chaco Canyon.
Sometimes I shake the jar
just to make sure the nearly hidden
pebble-size stones
rise briefly to the top.