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Stone Bed

          for her

In bed she counted stones,
each stone a memory
of a place she had visited,
a place she felt drawn to.
We'd lie there
in the cool darkness;
she'd remove the stones
from a small pouch
and tell their stories.
She'd say the stories
were for me,
each stone's memory
a memory of me.
But as her words tumbled out,
they'd avoid my glance,
tiptoe past our nakedness,
neither lingering
nor caressing,
scamper out of reach
across the floor, and,
as I'd watch,
climb out the window
toward the rising moon.