Truth

Worked over by philosophers
until the rubbed surface is free,
closer to a sea-worn pebble
sanded smooth by relentless tides;

like the one lingering deep
in a jacket pocket
when summer’s over—the one
you picked up, couldn’t throw away,
the one your hand returns to.

D.A. Prince

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  D.A. Prince would be pleased to hear them.