The River and the Stone

The rock is sharp and rugged.

The water? Not the same.

She sneaks up to the bouldered shore,

Leaving him wondering from whence she came.

 

She asks to pass through the way,

And he, a gentleman, yields.

A break in his constitution

As she flows through and to the fields.

 

He notices the touches

As she move past and over;

The smooth caress against his edge,

The new arrays of greens and clover.

 

But somehow in the wind,

The torrid ebb and motion,

He seems to be oblivious

To the constant, quiet erosion.

 

And so the time, it passes,

Wearing down what was rugged.

He welcomes all the constant current

The warm, the cool, and shaken shudders.

 

The moment, not forever,

The water soon begins to dry

Until the rock is left alone,

Now he’s still and smoothed on every side.

 

And sitting there inside

This bed she must have made,

He stares into the far distant sky

And wonders if it will return his gaze.

 

Perhaps that’s what it was

When the strangest hand did take

Him up into the crisp, cool night air,

And toss him skipping into the lake. 

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