washed ashore
not by accident
sent
eons of tuesdays ago
prompting me
to clamber down the cliff
plant rippled footprints
in the sand
plotting to catch my eye
just as I am about to give up

lying amidst a hodgepodge
of gray stones
broken shells

a single hole
piercing its center
shot clean through
precise
as if drilled by mason’s bit,
a shard of driftwood
bisecting the naked cavity
imperfect
improbable

reminding me
though shards of pain
push out circles of desolation
within my soul
they cannot fill the space

that my sturdy self
surrounds the void
cradles the pain

my stone teaches me
nothing has to be hidden
or repaired
or regretted
pain and empty places
are gifts
waiting to be discovered