Roks

This is a poem about rocks.

No hidden metaphor, just rocks.

I collect them for my dad

Just like he used to do.

Now I collect rocks for the dead

To give his tired arms some rest.

Rocks are cool.

Sometimes they are so shiny

They reflect sunlight.

Others are so smooth and dry

That my tears glance off

When I cry.

I love feeling the surface of rocks.

Especially when it’s wrinkled

And warm, like holding a hand

Of a loved one

When you remember

You can’t

Anymore.

Throw stones into the sea.

Pick some up at the shore.

Tides come

To form the sand.

Again

And Again.