Two round stones,
Weathered on river bends;
I carry in my pocket,
like two comprable friends.
Beneath the stream they softened,
Until I came at dusk;
So smooth, I tender hold them,
So soft, so frail as dust.
The warm weight in my pockets,
Is lessened like time's sand;
We pass beneath a shaded tree,
A chill enters my hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment