every rock

every rock remembers

the day I was born. remembers

the afternoon you learned

to walk. not even the slightest

wingbeat of a moth as sunlight lifts

early morning dew escapes their

notice. they witness and regard all

life with the tenderness of

a grandparent gazing on the new:

eyes that see far beyond anything

words could convey and yet

yearn, regardless, for the happiness

of the child. I know this is so.

but I don’t know what rocks make of it.

my life, yours, they seem content

with how we’ve turned out

but when asked if we’re doing

what we were put here for, they are

silent. I press both palms hard against

their solid coolness, and all they say is,

do not think too much of your life.

then like an echo off granite cliffs

once covered in ice I hear,

do not think too much of all life.

it is a sweet interlude in the turbulence.

we will be missed.