She-Wolf
The Magpie’s Warning
Her song
draws a line in the air—
a black note on blue,
sharp as her eyes
and just as clear.
The dog halts.
The wind shifts.
Even the trees
lean back a little.
She’s not angry.
Just sure.
This stretch of fence,
this slice of sky,
the nest wedged
in that forked branch—
all of it matters.
She’s known loss.
You can hear it
in the edge of her cry,
the way it curves
before it lands.
When she lifts,
it’s clean and fast,
wings tight with purpose.
She doesn’t chase for sport—
only to remind,
some things are worth guarding,
even if it means
being feared
for a while.
Ryan Stone
This poem is from my latest collection, Love, and Other Ordinary Miracles.
Kindle version available on Amazon now.
Paperback out July 4th 🌻
She Carries the Ocean in Her Spine
She never said
what it cost to hold the world.
Just straightened her back
when it sagged,
tightened the thread
when it frayed,
made dinner
even when her hands shook.
Her spine—
a tide chart.
Each vertebra
marked by waves
she never let break.
You wouldn’t know it
to look at her—
how many storms
she swallowed.
How many times
she flooded
and held
anyway.
Some call it strength.
But strength is easy
when it’s loud.
What she has
is deeper.
Saltwater kind.
Old as the moon
and just as faithful.
Ryan Stone
The Way They Run to Her
It’s not a question,
just instinct.
A scraped knee,
a bad dream,
the kind of ache
they can’t name yet.
They run to her
like rivers find the sea.
Like they always knew the way.
She doesn’t brace.
Just opens
arms, voice,
that face that says
I’ve got you.
There’s magic in it.
Not the wand-waving kind,
but the kind that knows
which night light to leave on,
how to mend what can’t be seen,
how to be
every kind of strong
without ever raising her voice.
I watch them fold into her,
safe and certain.
And I think,
this is how I learned
what love looks like.
Ryan Stone
Mother’s Hands
Advertisement for Myers Gloves, by Margaret Watkins (Canada), 1920s.
Mother’s Hands
Strong enough to lift me
each time I couldn’t rise. Soft
as cotton wool, washing
dirt from scrapes and tears
from eyes. Firm enough
to model clay
and boys, to bowls
and men, yet fine
when stroking ivory keys–
Für Elise and Clair de Lune.
They’d curl through each long evening
around her only vice, in a holder
like Audrey’s, that never left her side.
I’m thinking of her hands now–
strong and wild and free; missing
her hands now, as I watch ashes
blow to sea.
Ryan Stone
Written for the 20 poem challenge at Ekphrastic, September 2016.
First published at Ekphrastic, September 2016
The Walk
I wake a full hour early
for the rare gift
of a walk in the woods
with my father.
He is a silent giant
among misty ghost gums.
I tell him, Watch!
See how fast I can run.
He doesn’t yell when I trip
and fall, but lifts me
with unfamiliar,
calloused hands.
At the end of the trail
I study my grazes—jagged
and bloody. He tells me
he’s leaving my mum.
On the walk home
I gaze at the gum trees
and fragmented clouds, thinking
they should look different somehow.
Ryan Stone
first published at Poetry Nook, 1st place Week 185
Mother & Son
He faces the world
Armed with a rose and a shield
His mother’s blessing
Ryan Stone
For C&J
Drinking the Dawn
A young elephant can die
of a broken heart
should his mother leave.
I was an elephant once
just for a time.
Then I stood up,
tusk and trunk,
like she taught me –
stepped onto the prairie;
dry eyes drinking the dawn.
Ryan Stone
days of stone 