The red sandstone lay,
slight dimpled drill hole,
square-cut right-angled block,
beneath an ancient cross-joist
floor timber.

I thought I could take it,
a memory of someone’s old home,
a house I’d often seen
before a geological disaster
mud-slid, then drowned it
and its town,
thistle down,
into near oblivion.

Utah’s Pompeii,
covered with mud
except for a few
cut-stone
structures.

This red sandstone rectangle,
90 degree
right angle cut
not found in nature:
No one would miss it.

The rough red
would create an awesome border
on my garden,
a new use for old stone.

But even as I hoisted it
and walked car-ward,
it seemed to say:
“Stay.”
Heading downhill,
I slipped on rain-soaked mud
and had to throw it as I fell
to avoid having it
crush my pelvis.

Sitting in the back
of my car,
it seems to whisper
“Take me home.”

I almost dropped it off
last night,
right after I nearly hit
a white-tailed deer
on State Route 89,
near where there jersey barrier
separates me
and the block
from the home
it has known
for a hundred years.

Do the stones
have souls?
Do the square-cut corners
and dimpled indentations
still hold memories
and longingly speak?

I do not know.
I do know
that it does not belong
with me,
in my garden.
So I willdid return it
with honor,
and will hopefully
not slip again.