He tried folding stones of truth, but they would not bend. Flat ones, round ones, granite, lead.
Inadequate. Frustrated. He threw them instead. He flogged old ladies until their sagging skin bled.
Sticks and stones did break onesí bones and calling names did harm them. They became friendless
leppers living in barren land. People in darker ages valued their heads, watching, listening, really seeing,
then falling to exhaustion of inner over-heating. Occasionally, if fortunate, their stomachs would soon
turn, upheaving their Dreads.
Perhaps, overdramatically Iíve written times of the past. But, somewhere, some time in history,
there were floggings and treatments of life that are foreign to me. Thank goodness. Yet, upon occasion,
a remnant from a movie or an image from a book carry ivy, brushing against my skin unleashing its
urushiol. Itches lead to scratching. Inadvertently, I rub my eyes. They, too, become affected to the point I
must remove my rose-colored lenses. It is more comfortable to leave alone leaflets of three.
With that said, I divert to a different concept of the usage of rock. (I shall be more caring of my
taste and tiptoe with caution around leaves of three.)
On the other side of the medieval fence, children may have been stacking stones (somewhat like
twenty-first century toddlers do with their red, yellow and blue plastic blocks). In silence, they placed
one stone atop another, building toward the sky while no one watched or applauded. They enlarged
their visions: If a tower fell, they imagined a better, more stable way to build. Then they built it. If that
didnít work, they flexed their thinking to the use of other strategies, becoming active agents of balance
and contemplaters of if/then.
The game may not have been sustaining or fun if the river had created all rocks exactly the same,
equal in weight, size and texture. But like the mineral of children, the river ran rich.