Creative Writing

This is a recent poem:

Shed to Shore

Instead of river washed stone
cold, cleaned, polished;
I pick you up from the parking lot
scarred and scratched with stories
of human abuse.

Its a wonder you did not split in two
when you called yourself to me
slipped into the back
before I could drive away.

I use stones for weights
that hold my possessions in place
when winter wind comes
because I have no garden shed
being prohibited, by-law says.

I am left to the elements
without shelter,
but for your kind,
tools handy when I’m pushed
into defensive posture.

I long for the day when rivers
come back to me
perhaps with land I will purchase
where again I fish for rock.

I’ll take you with me
submerge, caress black rubber stains
wash the scars ’til renewed, re-born
to river washed stone.

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