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Wild Dawn

Beneath cold rushing water
lies a heart shaped stone
washed smooth,
a solid piece of storm.
Within this stone thrashes
all of the wild.
I was washed up too
on that river bank,
grey mist dawn,
a stone in my chest
black and cracked,
rough as my unshaven chin.
I burrowed into my mud,
dragging that cracked heart free
and slipped the wild dawn stone
in its place.
spring morning.

Go to Adam Pettet's profile to read more poems