My daughter  collects stones,

tears them out from sodden soily beds,

or picks them from the pile,

stashes them in pockets

till linings tear

and washing machine clatters

to the awkward beat

of a battered drum.

 

And though I chide her for the damage,

I know she can't resist

the clasp, the cut,

the spit, the rub

the nub and polish of them,

each stone its own harsh history

through this elemental world.

Concrete, enduring

smooth and alluring

like a semi precious promise

in the palm of her hand.

 

In the cold light of some other day

she sees them for what they are,

bleached bland,  granite grey,

dried, diminished,

drained of all that energy,

rough to gentle touch,

beyond their natural setting

so much less.

 

And yet,

my daughter collects stones

fills her bags and boots with them

blackens nail and skin for them

and I have to wonder

at this chip off the old block

never learning her lesson

never giving up

always believing

somewhere deep inside

that the real thing is out there

just waiting to be found.