Ken Autrey

Rainy days, aimless, I scooped 
through the marble-cool coinage
of Mother's button box,
rubbed wooden charms 
between thumb and finger
until the grain rose
like spun gold, buffed
brass nuggets until they glowed,
strung them on thread like beads.

The river obscures 
what it doesn't salvage. 
Older, I breach woven waters
to heft and inspect 
those worn pebbles.
A fist of leaves eases by 
on the current, checkered swatch 
of cloth, memory riddled 
with holes and barely afloat.

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