“Look at this!”
She said grabbing a rock out of the riverbed.
My mouth drops open/
I sing its praises.
She finds another one.
Each rock is special,
Each rock must be worshipped and acknowledged.
She gathers six or seven,
Her eyes darting underfoot,
Red hair flying high.
“Here, momma, for you!”
“For me?” I exclaim.
I shower her with gratitude,
And hold the rock to my breast.
She says, here,
Unloading a small pile of rocks into both my hands.
“Do I have to take them all home?” I ask.
“Yes,” she states matter of factly.
I pour rocks in my pocket and we walk on.
At home, we will marvel over the miracle of rocks.
Prompt 24, Hour 24