Sunstone




Sunstone






Today I held a sunstone

in my hand

Its edges were smooth,

its color

like the flesh of a wild salmon

laid fresh

on a bed of ice



The stone

was warm in my palm

glinting in the light,

layered, cracked, and fused

like my own

tempered skin

It was polished to fit

snug in my closed fist



I let it go from my grip,

skipped it

over the water,

a catch and release

I watched the ripples

fan out

As much as I wished

I’d held it longer

I was proud

I let it go






Jess Witkins




Jess Witkins is a Wisconsin-based writer, blogger, and storyteller. Her work has been published in local and national magazines. She is co-president of the nonprofit writing community, Mississippi Valley Writers Guild. She has a forthcoming essay titled "The Funeral Photographer" coming out in an anthology with Gelles Cole Literary Enterprises.

Post a Comment

Previous Post Next Post