Finder of Pebbles

My daughter’s pockets run so deep,
And as we walk the well-trod trail
With narrow curves and unexpected slopes,
Her roving eye and plucking fingers
Pick the pebbles passed on over
By less discerning eyes.
Collecting them is her great joy.
She shows them off:
The rough black rock with streaks like snow.
The agate banded ruby red.
The pale pink quartz and fool’s gold’s shine.
The shingled shale. The desert rose.
The fairy stone worn full of holes.
Sharp or dull or bright or dun,
Her kind eye finds them, dusts them off.
She tucks them deep to keep them safe.

My daughter’s pocket has a hole
And each beloved pebble falls.
Unbidden breadcrumb trails.
My daughter’s heart runs deep and breaks
When, on our doorstep, fingers find
That traitor fabric square
Has left behind a young life’s work.
My daughter’s eyes are filled.
She holds up empty hands.

My daughter’s pockets run so deep,
But mine are deeper still.
I found the fallen, scattered pebbles.
For her, I brought them home.

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