Poetry
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The Pebble
A Poem by Cynthia Ingram, Obl. OSB, St. Gertrude Monastery
The stone began where the spring was born,
With its jagged corners soon to be torn,
With moss on one side and mud on the other;
A long way to go away from its mother.
It skipped for awhile on its merry way
As the sand did tickle and the tree limbs swayed.
They bent over the brook to hear its song
As it whirled and swirled and bubbled along.
The stone was heavy when it started the journey,
Large and rough, and it moved like slurry;
Sometimes it moved on rapids so fast,
And sometimes rested in alcoves vast.
It traveled through time, and ages, and space,
Till it rested, at home, in its new little place.
It sang a tune in a key of the treble,
The joyful, bright, smooth little pebble.
A Poem by Cynthia Ingram, Obl. OSB, St. Gertrude Monastery
The stone began where the spring was born,
With its jagged corners soon to be torn,
With moss on one side and mud on the other;
A long way to go away from its mother.
It skipped for awhile on its merry way
As the sand did tickle and the tree limbs swayed.
They bent over the brook to hear its song
As it whirled and swirled and bubbled along.
The stone was heavy when it started the journey,
Large and rough, and it moved like slurry;
Sometimes it moved on rapids so fast,
And sometimes rested in alcoves vast.
It traveled through time, and ages, and space,
Till it rested, at home, in its new little place.
It sang a tune in a key of the treble,
The joyful, bright, smooth little pebble.
