We head out when the sun is new.
Humidity will hit soon, heat beating
against car windows and streets.
I turn as you stop to pick up rocks.
I catch my scold, my thought
that we need to hurry.
We move from shade to light as you turn
a stone in your hand, talk of the magic sparkles.
“It is sensitive to sun”, you say.
I know nothing of geology
but somehow I believe you.
We sit on the grass, you
on my lap, cradling stone in your palm.
The sun reflects off the gold in your prize,
off the gold streaks in your dark brown hair,
off the part of me that will always be part of you.