A Poem a Day (683): Stone

Stone. It’s only stone.
A rock. Grit. Edgy as hell.
It can’t roll unless you push it.
It won’t stick unless you make it.
 
Here it lies beneath the beat rain
etching words, pictures drawn,
sunken stick forms, the unrequited.
 
We measure ourselves against things
when we don’t ever need to.
 
Shadows are, and shadows become,
as light moves and breathes and eels,
yet the stone will always be.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, August 30, 2024