They hoard their trinkets:

Children, dogs, and houses;


to the funeral of common fellowship.

And yet the wick of superstition


faith may be an island

on which one becomes shipwrecked,

and most find their loves


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.


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