Beneath the clouds where roses grow, I picked up a pebble walking near the shore. I felt its smooth texture as it nearly melted in my touch. Holding it tight I heard a poet say:
“throw away that pebble, let go of that dream; if it’s made of gold and is to keep,
it will shine on you tomorrow from the sky, turned into the fresh morning Sun…”
But I was afraid to let go, for what if this one was made of love, not of gold?
© Iva Beranek (Dublin, March 2015)
Photo by © Iva Beranek