Carrying you in my pocket means
You need to scooch over to make room for my chilled hand.
Worry beads, rosaries, pebbles and jade have all made way.
Like a stone in my pocket, you soothe.
Like a stone in my shoe, you impede.
Like a stone in my kidey, you hurt.
Like a stone mason, you chisel until I am less than who I was.
I sink to Earth’s roiling lava center to dwell with Pele in fire and iron.
When we emerge, the land burns and the ocean boils.
I am solid and jagged and whole.
Copyright cgtrippenterprises.com 2019
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Published by Ms. C. G. Tripp
Catherine G. Tripp, Writer/Investor a lifelong mix. Left brain and right brain battle for dominance. I wrote the marketing materials for my mortgage brokerage, had a personal finance column at Examiner.com, wrote essays, short stories and poems published in school papers and magazines then literary journals. If my writings were a color, they would be yellow, bright as sunlight, highlighting the salient portions, not obscuring the past but deconstructing air brushed stories, finding humor and courage in the unloved corners.
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