They are small and flat, riverbed stones
that can hardly believe the long journey,
the grand lapidary of wind and water,
has led them, finally,
to a snug fit in the soft delta
of the palm, to be rubbed and rubbed again
in the recesses of the pocket.
They are unlikely companions, one polished,
the product of some refinement,
tear-shaped and, it seems, a bit frail,
the other, an earnest little piece of a mountain,
cut and tumbled from the scree one day,
a rock nouveau, a rock’s rock.
There is justice in the world,
and the rocks are quite prepared
to ride it out in this bag of notions,
forever amongst car keys, chapstick,
an occasional ticket stub–
because if it weren’t here,
it would be as it is elsewhere:
the world grinding itself to dust.
I think this is just lovely.