Finding the smooth,
black stone,
the one you will keep
in your pocket,
you imagine it, tossed
from the rocks
of that far country
by the hand of
your grandmother's
grandmother.
Whatever is lost here
will turn up again,
a thousand miles away,
a hundred years from now,
on someone's shore,
a dream,
a bone,
a doll, caught
in the tide;
the tangled remnant
of a rosary;
a ring, flung
from a bridge.
-- Deb Cooper