Did they arrive like this,
full, rounded, smooth stone
pendants from the ocean floor,
asking nothing,
never seeking more than
what was found...
Or, was it their
submission
to the water's anvil,
that they now repose upon
the ocean shore, peaceful,
gravid with their own
perfection?
And the others,
stunted, rough, and awkward,
amputated where
there should be
symmetry... if they
submit,
are they promised that
fruition?
I gather those grey daughters
of the moon, filling my skirt to
bursting, walking the long, slow
stretch back home, leaving
the others... perhaps unfinished...
Praying there are enough
millennia remaining
for their salvation,
praying they may love their imperfection.