Sunstone
Today I held a sunstone
in my hand
Its edges were smooth,
its color
like the flesh of a wild salmon
laid fresh
on a bed of ice
The stone
was warm in my palm
glinting in the light,
layered, cracked, and fused
like my own
tempered skin
It was polished to fit
snug in my closed fist
I let it go from my grip,
skipped it
over the water,
a catch and release
I watched the ripples
fan out
As much as I wished
I’d held it longer
I was proud
I let it go
Jess Witkins
Jess Witkins is a Wisconsin-based writer, blogger, and storyteller. Her work has been published in local and national magazines. She is co-president of the nonprofit writing community, Mississippi Valley Writers Guild. She has a forthcoming essay titled "The Funeral Photographer" coming out in an anthology with Gelles Cole Literary Enterprises.
Tags:
Poetry