Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Thelma T. Reyna
I collect them every chance I get, under shrubs dried
from winds that sap life out of things, or in gurgling
streams. Stone hearts buried beneath others like
them, stones misshapen by elements.
I stoop in creeks like miners seeking gold, eyes
scanning gray, white, brown, beige, black stones
arrayed like faces in a crowd—looking for the
right, rounded head cleft in two, with
opposing point that makes a heart a heart. Smooth
rocks that glint in sand, or craggy stones
lying with clods and scorpions and
dung beetles in thorns.
A heart’s a heart. Doesn’t matter where it
hides or shows itself, how wind and sun and
storms have buffeted or cosseted, how it’s been
tossed or laid in moss. I gather these in
pockets by my breast.

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