Stone appearing in farm field in Spring

I have never known the touch of a hand, before yours.
The sun and I have only lately become reacquainted.
I was shrugged from the shoulders of earth
as it stretched  away the winter.
You say the winter is so long.
I arrived here unimaginably long ago
in a winter that would laugh at your definition.
But winters aren't frivolous enough to laugh, but focused and slow
so slow and hungry
mile thick sheets of ice biting everything
and chewing
and consuming
and eliminating us like waste here in this land
far from where we began.
A map, you say? Where on the map?
I cannot conceive of such a thing.
I am older than anything else you have met
and perhaps I have traveled farther than you have traveled
but never with a map.
Maps are about choice.
I have never had a choice.
Not even today, when you found me in your farm field
cursing all of us for appearing there when your tiny winter was done.
You bent and seized me from the earth with your warm human hand
and without even considering my long journey
my great age
the wonder that I have brought to you 
from a time and a place you can't go
you released me into the air
and I flew I flew I had never imagined such a thing
and fell hard into a pile of others of my kind.
There is a new mark on my surface that catches the edge of the curious air.

We wait together now.
We tell stories to each other of how it once was.
We have long memories of our choiceless lives
and of the real winter with its mile-thick ice
which would rob you, even you,  of choice.