Piles of pebbles

We have these piles of coastal pebbles

In our house,

Hidden in dishes, bowls, and jars

Or stashed in dresser drawers.

 

Washington Island's are monotone grey,

And it was surprisingly hard to walk on them with bare feet.

Florida's have yellows and whites with the dark

And are mixed with polished bits of coral and shells.

The waves of Northern California gave us mostly black

With dark reds that gleamed when wet from the pounding surf.

And from Luderitz, we have a handful of agates

With stripes that kept us searching for hours.

 

What is it about these little rocks

That draws us through the waves to pounce

And pocket a treasure?

Is it the magnitude of their history, pulled back

And forth against the sand by waves for longer 

Than we have been alive?

Do we think we are saving them from their destiny as

Bits of sand--stopping time's process by placing in a jar 

In our sock drawer out of elements?

Maybe we crave something smooth in our hand

And rocks will never pull away, hesitating to commit?

 

Or, are these shiny stones a record of a moment, a shrine

To an hour when time stood still for us--no phones, no cars, 

No arguments--just the sand, the wind, and the 

Waves that gave up their jewels to a stranger

Who needed to smile?

 

L. Powell