I find it lying beside the drive near a patch
of evening primroses, now doing their June
thing of blooming each night at nine fifteen.
I pick it up and am struck by its resemblance
to a heart, albeit a misshapen one,
worn down by years—no, centuries, or
even more—of winds and weather, sun
and storm. Not too unlike the ones within
our breasts that beat da-dum, da-dum, da-dum
till they no longer can. And are they not
misshapen too, perhaps one hump more arched
or chipped away? Most hearts are broken more
than once. A hole, eroded part way through
the rock’s left ventricle might one day spring
a leak. But that could be eons away.
—Elaine Parker Akin