sticks and stones

March 8, 2012 § 2 Comments

I met her
by the milk machine
outside of the doughnut shop

as she broke away from
the rest of her crowd
walking home
from that first day back
at school

I gave her a cross
whittled out of a branch,
secured to a boot lace

she handed me a water polished
pebble – found on
the shore of a lake
during her summer trip
to The Thousand Islands

we didn’t say anything but
“here”
and “o.k. here”

I can’t remember who
spoke first

sometimes
it would seem

sticks and stones
don’t break anything

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