by Lisa Wiley
I keep rolling you over in my mind
like a smooth rock tumbled
for centuries along the creek bed.
Picking it up, I admire the polished curves,
wonder where we begin and end.
This pebble, only a few ounces,
weighs heavy on the heart.
Shall I pocket it like an albatross waiting
for that one halcyon summer day you visit?
Or toss it back into fresh water,
see you skip across to the other side?
Sometimes, there aren’t enough fucking rocks.