Wake Up

She Gathers Rocks

wherever she goes, 
make that sticks—no, 
leaves—which is to say

heads of flowers and hips. 
More river than daughter, 
her arms fill with treasures

of every trail. Hold this, 
she says, to make us
her buckets, her pockets

already clack-and-bristle
full. It goes fast, they say, 
and it was going as they

said it, for it's gone
into us counting to five
five times a day, saying,

"Time for bed!" "Time
to wake!" "Time to leave!" 
And it's gone into her

quickening eyes and stride
that have left us
among all the things

she once believed
she couldn't leave behind.