. . .the gathering
Sticks ‘n’ feathers, stones ‘n’ bones,
bulbous acorns, prickly cones
. . . all foundlings that I carry home.
Twigs that ask the question “Y”,
or gnarled driftwood catch the eye
and call to something deep within:
“Take me home. Let me in. Treasure me and I will be your keepsake, confidante and friend.”
So pocketed pebbles, colored leaves,
single blossoms, ruby seeds
are gathered randomly then pressed
or strewn with perfect carelessness
or placed with reverence in a chest
to work their quiet magic-ness.
