Beryl Eichenberger

Pebbles of words

I own my words.
Like a pebble
rolled in my hand,
round and proclaiming
is my word, digging
into the hill, planting
its smooth time,
a fragment of the earth.
Little world they whisper,
sleepy caves own nothing
even the grain of sand
sifting, owns nothing.

Looking, walking, being
takes back the soul.
You were island, country,
it was from you always.

In my hand,
I roll my pebble
to a small grain of sand.
My words a granule
I own.

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