A stone skips through the world,Though unseen by the common eye.Perhaps it begins out on the road, watching the mailman with his load.As frost comes and all grows cold,It rolls a way, by playfully running children’s feet.And now it’s only half the size—Has the world a plot for a stone so bold?And then it’s caught in someone’s boot, taken far under foot.It listens for a bit, to shouts of children making shaky self-portraits.It’s shaken loose by mother’s hands and slips behind a drape’s fold.But that little stone a child spies: “A stone! A skipping stone!” she cries.And off they run, to water’s edge, and fling the stone, now just a pebble, high past the boat,Like a water skimmer, it skips once, twice, thrice, four, five times . . .