My daughter collects smooth,
large stones where she can find them.
She puts them in a basket and admires
the way their round backs glisten
after she has washed them in the sink—
stripes of grey and tan, chalky white,
mottled blue like eggs from an unknown
species of bird. Lifted from the dirt,
they belie their age. What parts
of the whole do they carry, how long
since they were shorn off another face?
Dry pods bristle across the yard, little
mines of exploded seeds. But there are
some things held indefinitely in the heart.