The Stone in the Creek

Stone

[In the deafening sound of
A softly flowing creek]
The Stone though unmoving
Is whittled with the beat
Of the white dove's song that ebbs with fall
By the slow havoc his river wreaks.

Stone longs to be that whistle
Or to follow where it goes
Craves some new identity
But little does he know
Dove watches as he shrinks
And yet—she sees Stone grow

All that Stone sees in himself
Is mineral washed away
He panics, thinks he's losing substance
And fails to see the way
That he's made the grass and moss and bugs
The home they have today.

They've built on him a neighborhood:
A place where life can start.
Dove sang him this story just
Before winter's depart
That the creek eroding soil
Not erode his mind or heart.