Gathering the Rocks

By | 1 August 2018

When I think of you now,
I see you in space
with your arms full of rocks.
It’s winter.
The fields are bleached
and bare.
The rocks are brown –
volcanic rocks,
pitted and domed.
They have to be just right.
We’re gathering them
for our garden.

The fields are spacious,
flat, filled with afternoon light,
You stand up high
against the horizon.
The rocks are round
in your arms.
They shelter against your dark coat
like breasts, like children.

Our dog barks behind you.
Chasing birds in faraway fields,
she runs, her breath streaming.
Over by the highway,
our baby waits, her face
a tiny planet in the car window.
Who can say what distance
her eyes go round,
behind shadowed glass?

Planets we are, all four,
circling each other.
Rocks and space …
This is our family.
It has to be just right
to plant them in our garden.

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