I am holding a smooth, cool stone
and in the same hand I am hanging onto a hot mug of tea.
Both are threatening to slip.
I cannot quench this aching bloom in my heart
with spilled tea
or words but I never want to stop touching rocks
like when I went camping and came home with pieces of the river
or when I crawled in ancient caves and all I wanted was the earth,
more earth in my pockets and in my soul
like the people who have nothing to feed their children, but the soil they are dying on
still holds them,
their bodies wasting, buildings crumbling, and the land stays still and deep,
more patient than any of us.
We have earth and god, but god is too hard to touch, to smell
so we cling to stones and lie our bones down in rivers
on sand
in grass
and we drink the breath of the trees and we scream that it isn’t fair it isn’t right
but still we are here
and we collect stones.