To bear

 

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.
   

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