River Rocks

The angry ones arrive first.
Jagged from the mountain’s breaking,
sharp enough to cut.

Year by year
the river works against corners.
Every surface that juts out
catches more current,
wears faster.

I’ve known people like this.
Started sharp enough
to draw blood from a handshake.

Now, forty years downstream,
smooth to the touch.

Granite is still granite,
quartz still holds light.

Some keep one rough side,
usually underneath,
where the river couldn’t reach.

In my neighbor’s garden,
a cairn of river rocks
marks where she sits.
“Stream-tumbled,” she calls them.

Children skip the flat ones,
counting bounces.
But the round ones
they hold like eggs,
warm them in small hands,
carry them home.