(For Later)

After it was all over,
we could only keep three piles of stones.
One for Mary, one for my mother, and one to bury deep
for safekeeping.
They were amber and gold and we knew they were precious enough.
We tied them in bags, placed them in pine boxes.
We kept two inside by the fire. Warmed our hands as we removed slivers.
The last box, we took outside. Dug through the ice, through the snow,
through the frozen dirt until we reached the right tree root.
There, we planted it,
promised we'd return one day and wake our stones from hibernation.
We'll boil them,
hold their warmth, rub them clean,
remember each one for its roundness,
for its pure perfection.