Rock Collector

The pebbles on the windowsill

lingered in longing

like the fingers that felt

for them. The gray/red-and-

purple hues cast back sun-

drops into tired amber eyes.

He walked the paths

pebble-littered and, lovely,

looked but the next foot

ahead. Every precious curve

he coveted. Every smooth

touch soothed, a fleeting

balm to the unquiet need.

When he gave in, grasped

but tenderly their

gentle gravity, they weighed

some fragile distance inside

him. Then another would

catch his stony glance and as

he stretched out a hand, he

only thought not to

drop the ones he had.