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.