Purpose

With kindled hands, I carried the moon.

Or a rock that looked like the moon. A pebble that held so much power
As striking seams do among the dank carpeted sky.

Emanating such tangy luminescence a star would melt its way to its reaches.
Soft heeding edges that have been cradled in stitches by timeless hands or

Run by the river a thousand times over.
And the pebble was so small that I almost lost it. And feared it would fall to a pitless fate among the bland.
Tuck it away in your bag, just for me?
A cry of nightfall's gem.
And it was pawned off, skin to palm.

I forgot about it, but there’s a certain soundness to the cold plastic hug of a side pocket.