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I’ll polish here inside this river sand,

and gleam beyond the coursing flow—be seen

by those who can and cannot understand

how precious, and how well-worn, and how clean

I am. How well I’d look upon their palm

in morning, and when noon-sun hits my face,

and evening, how the sunset feels so calm

when seen through shining outlines you can trace

on me. Trace, trace on me the wealth of years

of yearning, polishing the heart you hold

that will continue yearning, as my tears

prove how long I have been polishing, cold,

within the depths of this cold river sand.

I wait to be picked up by your warm hand.