I have always known
my soul is with the rocks;
heavy, they are grounding,
light, they skip water.
I try to embrace this,
most of me naturally does
except a section wanting
flight with birds, or comets.
Comet! Why that's it!
Sir stubborn part can be
a flying rock, duh;
still it wonders, why rock.
Why not a Tiger Lily
or sweet mountain stream,
the fully skirted pine
or slice of an April sky?
As a child I loved all rocks
ragged and sharp, silk smooth,
stones multi and mono colored.
I must talk to the child.
