slung round my neck, a sack, stone full
pebbles and pearls pecked for the pull
and deposited
indebted
undoubtedly mine
(the finder keeper
the dusty porch sweeper)
each wound with twine and fishing line
accompanied wishing
hush against each
stone shiny-tumbled
by lips brush
hush
it hangs heavy on my chest
pushing down ribs
lungs fight for the lift
the breathing to shift
two years and counting
scouting for change
eyes on the tree line
and looking for rain
I lean on my broom
no rush
counting still
count with each brush
one hand entwined
the wickery thrush
wish out this rhyme
there is time
there is time
