I am just a rock,
But with some character don’t you think?
Sitting here, on some terminal moraine in Massachusetts,
I watch the cars go by,
Mostly ignoring me,
Certainly not considering the millions of years that make up,
Well … me.
I’ve been crushed,
I’ve been moved,
I’ve been washed,
But mainly I have been ignored.
The lines of my life are there to read,
Just as a palm, or tree limb,
But more so.
I am indiscernible,
Which sort of makes me smile.
To myself of course.
Because rocks can’t communicate.
Which of course you already know.