wonder stone

she rests on my desk
cedar green, flat
and smooth
tumbled for weeks
with coarse to fine grits
she acquired high polish,
tiny pits on one side

when I’m anxious
or can’t find a word,
my hand reaches
to finger the stone
my thumb loves the flaws
searches them out
like a friend in a crowd

stone, cool to the touch,
her smoothness soothing
the pits make me pause,
take a breath—
why she?
that cool sensation
so like Mom’s hand
on my young fevered brow

2023 ©Amrita Skye Blaine
I’m writing a poem a day. These are drafts—not final versions.