That stone is an egg.
Beneath the leaves, I see
It peeking,

Its cold. The egg should be covered.
Some predator will come,
And see the egg, dully white,

Its unsafe. We should protect,
While protect we can,
the little egg,

Under rotting leaves
Oblong,
small and cold.

My fingertips are red
And rosy with blood
I imagine that
there’s blood in eggs

the inside red and warm
The skin a shell,
Pocked and dirty,

but can little eggs blush?
Can their cells bloom like
Flowers on the surface
Of their shell?

can little eggs shiver?
rocking under wet leaves
and a cold november sun?

I imagine that
there’s blood in eggs
a ruby in a stone.

Precious life,
but cold.