I used to pocket stones
indiscriminately,
never selecting for
significant beauty or
geologic complexity.
Location of discovery?
Irrelevant.
My selections all based
on a youthful
irreverence.
I categorized my finds
as afterthoughts-
flipped through a tome
my father had bought
to identify hunks
of limestone
or basalt.
Whether walking along
a blue mountain peak
or a frothy gold beach,
I’d tuck my chin
to my chest and
search near my feet,
stooping to study the
never-complete.
Each piece of earth
wearing,
morphing,
turning
into something
new
that you and I
and our carnal eyes
will never see
all the way through.
I placed these stones
in a glassy home,
unlabelled and
for my mind alone,
to hold when
circumstances
seemed fixed
and the world
carried on
viciously
as is.
Reminders
that even
the solid
underfoot shifts
with time and
unyielding
observance.
pm poetry 