A single pebble overturned on this mud strewn path,
its marbled edge, an aftermath of violence,
like a flutter of a butterflies wings-
its psychedelic dust strewn to cause chaos a million miles from here.
How long in frigidity on the road to nowhere it had sat,
the residual memory of fiery birth
now a passing nothingness,
just like a pair of hunter wellingtons,
displacing its pretend sleep.
It did not expect a small boy to pick it up,
warm it in his pink, plump hand,
and hold it up to the golden winter sun
as if it were the most precious gem a small boy
had ever seen before.
It did not expect the comfort of his newly washed pocket,
or the rhythmic hum he expelled
as he trotted merrily looking for fairies
In the skeletal woods.
It did not expect to be named,
and kept as a pet under a pillow case
Made of pirate dreams and cowboy cards.
It expected to remain,
on a mud strewn road
Until it was dust.