Why, you may ask, would I want to keep
A box of rocks?

In all that I have or did have,
Was there ever a plate or a chair,
A salt shaker or pillow more fit to save?

To pack and pack again so many times,
In so many moves from place to place.

And living hand to mouth,
Where are all of the necessities?
All those things which must be
Continually consumed?
Gone, of course!

As is the case with clothes outgrown
Or badly worn,
The hammer and the nails unused, ignored.
Coffee cups and waffle irons,
Lost to the many yard sales along the way.

To this I say,
The rocks are always there,
Always underfoot,
Usually supportive,
Giving some level of primal pleasure.
Bringing us high or low,
Making us feel big or small,
These tightly squeezed elements
To dazzle the eye,
To spark the imagination.

And never let it be said
That these same stones have grown too old,
That in my lifetime they will be undone,
Like moldy bread or bad marriages,
Old photographs to fade or to be willfully discarded.

Rocks are a tangible reminder,
These objects souvenirs of a journey, ongoing,
Keys to memories kidnapped for their keeping.


My box of rocks is a constant.
My box of rocks remains unchanged,
My box of rocks is
One of few things in my life
Left unbroken.





Michael S. True
7/18/14