Like a child sloshing up the creek bed,
It is your delight to find my scattered sediment.
Every stone is overturned as your toddler hands
Pocket me—smooth, jagged, colorful, and dull.
You sprawl me out on your palm and gaze before
Tucking me away. You love the sound I make,
Clinking with the movement of your trousers.
You, the Rock Collector.
The ruddy child who sifts away
Until every pebble of myself
Is found, tucked away, kept.