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,

And overheated.

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.