We remember you speaking. The yard wasn’t green. The Sun wasn’t yet too large. We wanted to imply nicely that your words weren’t much. We’d seen your last step. So our look, is a look, and a word isn’t said. Now, let us tell you, the sun did go down. We found ourselves a book. In the book were the words you’d been looking for.
As a child we wanted rocks. They told us to be. We wanted to know more, but the rocks only spoke one line. We pilled rocks into our pockets. We felt them against our legs as we walked. When we ran, they didn’t mind. Every day we asked a rock, any rock, what it meant to be. We watched our shadow at noon. The sun pushed. The oil from the rocks stuck to our feet.