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from a sky spitting pearls in trails from star to star
then threading them once more into gray wisps
thin as smoke, thin as my hair
where these pieces remain
hidden, constellations in an ocean floor.

Black pearls are as comforting as coffee
grounds when I rub them between my fingers
or large as bowling balls in my dreams.

Seed pearls spill from the trees in snowy fury
or sprout from the ground as dew:
pearls of light upon the leaves.

My pearls are precious, like pearls carried in pockets
filled with holes, the pockets of orphan children who could
never afford pearls in their ears or in their jewelry boxes
where a single pearl rolls like an eight ball from corner to corner
until at last it drops unseen into a remote country,
a pocket of the world no one has mapped out or visited.

Pearls sink into the necks of lilies softened by the act of growing,
pearls are nestling against my palm with its mars and slashes,

my pearls are tiny planets with their own heated cores.

Robin Dawn Hudechek

Previously published in Caliban Online #17