rocks in our pockets
We all collected rocks,
crinoids near the creeks,
river jade, lake glass,
heart-shaped stones for the hearth.
On our neighborhood walks
when my daughter was four,
she’d stuff her pockets
and give them to people she’d meet on the way.
Now, she brings me
bits of marble and tiger’s eye
from her travels,
a four-leaf clover from her backyard.
We still pick up rocks,
our eyes searching the ground.
She has learned to be weightless
by also looking around.
4 thoughts on "rocks in our pockets"
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A horder’s anthem! I’m confused by the ending though.
Yeah, I know. I hadn’t quite worked it out and rushed to click submit, you know, midnight, and my kids visiting so the house is noisy. I wanted to say the weight of her family doesn’t hold her down, she wanders, gives herself away easily, and I’m proud.
I can relate to this through my grandson. When he was three, he loved rocks. He gave me a collection of rocks, stones, that he picked up from looking around for them. He framed them in a small version of the ones I display my Indian rocks in.
This poem is sweet. It reminds me of collecting shells along the shoreline every summer in New York. <3