I’m sitting here this morning poem-less. Nothing moves. No words rise to the surface begging to be written down. I’m holding in my hand a rough gray stone my husband brought me from that sacred mountain in the high Andes when he was there last spring. In the tradition of the Quechua peoples of the Sacred Valley, each mountain peak is occupied by a potent spirit known as an Apu. As I sit here this morning turning this nondescript gray sandstone over and over in my hand, I wonder what wisdom it holds, what knowing it carried in my husbands pocket all those miles. It keeps its own mind. Stones, I’ve learned, don’t take kindly to our putting words in their mouths. I wouldn’t presume with one come so far from such a noble lineage.