I love this artwork by Elliott Puckette, spotted over on Paul Kasmin Gallery...
... and this poem by Richard Hugo. I'm still enjoying his poetry so very much.
A blue stone is only one piece
of a huge blue stone no one can find.
A blue stone is anything but
a blue stone. It is a speck of sky
in your hand or a tiny bit of sea.
Of all stones, it contains
the most magics. It can veer your life
away from poverty to riches. It can grow a tree
exactly where you need shade. Just rub
a blue stone and make a wish. A blue stone
becomes the blue marble shooter
you won all those marble games with.
I always act indifferent
around blue stones, sort of nonchalant
like I feel they're nothing special.
That way they work best for me.
I avoid cold faces amd cruel remarks.
When I sail a blue stone downwind into
the long blue day, armies stop.
When I sail a blue stone into the wind
that always precedes a rain in Montana
and then find the stone and pick it up
a bird sings blue rain.
Days I can't find a blue stone
no matter where I look, I know they're returned
every one to the big blue stone they came from
somewhere in the blue mountains,
somewhere unmapped and roadless
that can't be seen from the air.