The Stone Without Moss
I’m the stone without moss, slowly rolling uphill,
the pebble the stone kicks aside.
I’m the lake far below waiting patient and still,
watching the pebble’s long dive.
I’m the last rippled echo that runs from the pebble
and dashes itself on the shore.
I’m the hands in the water, cupping and dripping,
to the mouth where the water is poured.
And I stand up again and I gaze at the mountain
And begin my eternal ascent.
I’m the stone without moss, the circling ripple,
till eternity’s utterly spent.