Fairy Tale Rocks

     This is another of the poems I'm currently working on.  But I've been struggling. I first wrote this poem in free verse, and the durn thing keeps turning toward rhymed verse.  What's a poet to do?  I'm listening to the rocks.
I think this is the third poem this week about rocks.  Maybe if I push it, there might be a collection here called POETRY ROCK!  (Sorry, I couldn't help myself keep from punning.)

Stone Woman/Rock House

Each day on her morning walks

the woman would pick up rocks.

Then she'd take them home,

and caress each precious stone.

At first, she'd place them

in bowls for friends to play

when the bowls began to fill

she moved to the window sill.

She'd place the stones

in groups of two or four

hoping they'd be comfortable

until she could bring even more.

She'd hold them and turn them,

she'd dust and water them.

She placed the rocks in neat little rows

or clustered like an English garden grows

trying to coax them into bloom.

She'd sing to the rocks,

she'd jabber and croon.

She cracked one open

and saw the moon,

and light like stars

sparkled inside.

Each little stone

was her special pride.

She worried the rocks

until the day

when one of the stones

finally said, “Stop.”

He was a sage of a rock,

who started this tale,

“Never has there been a man,

or animals, fish or bird

insect or reptile—no one never--

that hasn't been touched

by a rock.!”

So the woman stopped

what she had to do

and sat to listen to

all the rock had to tell.

He told stories from

the beginning of time

when rocks came together

to make the earth sublime.

Of fruit and flowers

and whiling away hours

from dinosaurs to Indians,

and trains crossing plains,

of farmers and wars

and hurricanes.

The woman grew old

listening to stones

and when she died

she wasn't alone.

The rocks all giggled

feeling her mirth

they rolled to cover

the woman in earth.