They hoard their trinkets:

Children, dogs, and houses;

monuments

to the funeral of common fellowship.

And yet the wick of superstition

burns;

faith may be an island

on which one becomes shipwrecked,

and most find their loves

ashen,

carried by the wind.

But you,

I would have you stay as common,

and smoothed,

and beautiful;

filled with irregularities

like the rose quartz I hold

in my hand.