I pulled clothes out of the dryer
and a rock fell on the floor. Your rock, of course.
Lightning-veined or speckled, rocks accumulate
in your pockets, in the trunk of your car,
inside your stubborn, heavy suitcase.
A bit of the universe you want to see again.
I learned how to close my view to a pinhole,
ignoring anything that might slow me down.
You walk into the world wide open.
When you see a flower, a certain rock—you stop.
Notice, you teach me. See how the iris petals
are like the lily? Taste this wild onion!
Life spins and spins and we rattle against
invisible walls, not remembering
every stone, every weed is an offering,
an opening we can pass through.