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I hold within my palm

a rock

it is smooth

and shaped like an egg

the colors like calico

wet with rain

it comforts little my ache

it mends me not when torn

it is just a rock

and it lays in silent jest

if it had a mouth

it would be smirking

“I am just a rock”

it would say

flat toned and heavy

my fingertip runs long its side

softly wanting

but know not want do I

what peace would it hail me?

what deep secret could it tell me?

what indeed is your story?

it’s just a rock

for heavens sake

but it comforts all the same

a foe to my pain

muse to my poetry

I think I will keep you.