At some point
(Perhaps far enough in the future I need not solve it)
All the good stones
Are going to disappear
Into all the deep pockets
Of our dresses and ballgowns.

And when all the good stones are gone,
Where will we send our daughters?
Into the garages and attics
Of old powerful witches?
Robbing window shrines, trinket shelves?
They’ll have to hunt somewhere, after all.

I’ll sew you extra pockets, just in case.
I’ll leave a vague note about the importance of looking.
We cannot be too concrete in such matters.
Good stones choose to be seen by keen eyes
And I couldn’t hope to chronicle them all
Ones that sparkle
Ones that are smooth for skipping
Ones that carry the century layers in miniature
Ones that are simply “cool” because they say so

If you’re quick, I may let you steal mine
When I am not watching closely
But only if they speak to you and ask
To be taken back to the wild
To be thrown into the lake
To be released
I heard that request once at some point
Far in the past
And answered.

As do all women who know.