Unturned Stone
Found
stone;
not lost,
needs no one,
on the end of thrown.
Planted where it always belongs,
embedded in the raspy grass of Sunken Meadow.
A pound of basalt rock having formed sometime in the Pleistocene Age, for no reason.
No
place
to go,
nor needs to,
between the present
and past, buried in its shadow.
Tendered by the hardest rains, nightfall, or soft birdsong,
in the middle of the moment, this rock, left for dead, never, never needs to be found.
