The heavy stone

My grief was a heavy stone, rough & sharp.

Grasping to pick it up my hands were cut.

Afraid to let it go I carried it.

While I had my grief you were not lost.

The rain of my tears smoothed it.

The wind of my rage weathered it,

making it round & small.

The cuts in my hands have healed.

Now in my palm it rests,

sometimes almost beautiful,

sometimes almost you.