It’s a trickle of materials into pockets,
these little sticks and stones.
Walking outside, book in hand
and feeling the sun into my bones.
Small and happy, I’d sit on the stoop
legs outstretched no longer cooped
up in a ball of daydreams.

Escaping into summer mornings
I’d pick at sand and small quartz,
flipping between page and trees,
attending to humming birds’ courts
by sitting under the perfect red feeder.
Awaiting their hums and fluttering duets
it never mattered how long I’d sat
at peace and wonder of their wings.

Quart fell into pockets when I wandered off
to sit under a familial white birch.
Book still glued to side, I’d find a twig
to peel grass back for a microscopic search
to imagine grass leaves as forests of lown
while studying them from tip to crown
in my own quiet habitat.

So casual cruelty has never made much sense.
I made friends and tools of sticks and stones.
Words were comforting peace from a book,
and quiet was the sound of insect drones.
Cruelty is derived from emotion and intent
to create a reaction without repent.

So you can throw your words and scorn
but I’ll keep the sticks and stones with me.