How A Writer's Mind Works: Rocks

a poem by Pat Kelbaugh, USA

Rocks.
Rocks in a box with locks.
To know nothing but darkness
But for formal galas, then,
Scintillating with light,
sputtering,
reflecting,
in eyes overawed, envious.
Then, back in the box.
Locked.

Rocks.
Rocks by the sea with me.
This little gull standing among them,
curious, feathers tossed by the spring breeze.
Feather clouds lit by earth’s changed tilt.
Clean.
Hat off.
Hair blowing.

Sea stones in my pocket.

A zillion like them, but no two quite the same.
Worn smooth by the Atlantic.
Cruelty free. Blood free. Invisible, like me.

Keep your rocks, zillionaires. I’ll keep mine.
(Unless I find some on the beach.)
Would I throw them back into the ocean?
(Be free, little rocks!)
Put them in my pocket and sneak home, like One Froggy Evening?
(It’s on YouTube.)

Probably.
Then put them in a box.
Rocks.

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