That piece of rock I held tight fisted
I thought I would give it trajectory.
A parabola in the sky,
Circles in the water.
But that would complicate things,
This geometry.
So I spoke to it knowing it would not understand,
It echoed meaning.
Old, insentient I thought,
It reminded me of my own mortality.
I opened my palm, traced my fingers along its jagged edges,
Offering it to pierce the skin, draw blood.
It slipped and fell to the earth.
The ochre colored impressions it left in my palm,
In a sunset the color of mulled wine,
I carried its calligraphy,
It erased my fate lines.
