Walking through

heather and fern

onto a mountain hill

Laying

on a bed of stones

they press into my body

from different angles

Placing a hand

on my stomach

and wonder

where your stone

is placed

Finding a puce rock

weightless

filled with pores

ready to carry

your whispers

and fill the opaque holes

with auriferous veins

that your

words do

I will bring air

Home

It awaits your skin

if you are

ever in need

to be held