The smooth touch of stone
against my hand.
One skip, two, and the stone
goes off into the hazy ocean,
a sky filled with clouds and dreams,
hopes and needs and wishes
of desire and morality,
and birth and mortality.

In that pebble lies
the breath of a baby
shallow and small, its first.
It steps, one by one,
until its hand reaches down
and pulls the sun in close;
holds it tight,
close enough to take a bite
of its dignity and freedom.
Its freedom to express
the right to live, to breathe
every breath we want
until its face turns blue,
its hands in purple fists,
knocking on the grave.

The pebble goes down softly.
It pours out of me, flies away
into the deep azure depths of
the ocean of memory and light,
silence and bright days,
memories of future and past;
until I reach that great blue
bottomless pit in the sea-sky.