Hag stone
Whatever I wear, like magic,
it’s in my pocket.
Smooth and comfortable in the heart of my palm.
The tips of my fingers dance it over
and over
in the fluff and crumbs.
I hardly know I’m doing it.
There’s a rhythm to the turning
tipping one moment into the next
like the currents of its riverbed birthplace.
Some days it catches my fingertip
in its smooth crater
and the tumbling stumbles.
I wonder if it’s telling me
there’s a question to be asked.
They say that if you see through the hole
you find the answer that you need.
