Mag 65 - Pocket Stone

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Pocket Stones

How she hated skirts

They had no pockets

Not like the overalls

She would have lived in overalls

If Mother would have let her.

After a day of treks

In the Missouri woods

With Charlie and her brother

They would all return home

Weighted down with treasures

In their pockets

Each Taken out and talked about 

Displayed on her windowsill.

How she loved stones even then

Noticed for their odd shape

Their color or sheen

Picked up to look at closer

Kept because they fit

So nicely in her palm

Slipped so easily in her pockets

Carried as a talisman or put in potted gardens.

She thought at first it was just a piece of soap stone

But upon examination saw it was carved

A figure with birds and a gentle expression

Now worn smooth carried about

In one pocket after another

Over the years.

Now it was cargo pants

And she didn't have to beg permission to wear them

She picked up St. Francis from her dresser

Slipped him again into a pocket

Set off into the New Mexico forest with her camera

Collecting photographs

And stones.

So many walks with her Saint

So many pocket stones.

J. Binford-Bell 

May 2011