Pebbles: eggs of a babbling stream, 

laid in the summer wind.  

I picked them up, 

and carried them home,

stowed in the jacket pockets, 

so my father knew them not.

Pebble shape: the lips of an open mouth,
the doors of a hidden house. 

It’s buried deep in the sand, 

caressed by a gentle hand.

The edge of a snowflake, 

dangling on the window’s front.  

Pebble smell: the mint of spring 

—fresh from morning’s bath. 

The whispering of the wind: 

A thunderstorm is coming. 

Clouds opening up the veils 

of heaven—a divinely waterfall. 

Pebble color: a collage of the season’s greens, 

a mosaic of the fallen leaves.

A colorful quilt, 

covering a child asleep.  

Mother shook him awake: 

It is a sunny day. 

Pebble: a world itself. 

Each crack a river, 

tracing its cratered terrains. 

It’s the map of a tiny Earth, 

on which the seasons rolled

and where my mind could romp.