Deep down, there is a hardness, a stone buried in my root structure.
They said it might destroy. But I wrapped myself around it.
Like the constant stream, it helps define me. It anchors.
Like the green grass in the spring, the mud that I reach for.
Growth follows, low to the ground. Time polishes the stone.
Branches break, saplings come and go. Old friends stand beside.
Time polishes the stone. Generations climb and contemplate.
The current, the gravel, the growth, Time polishes the stone.
___ Rob Carrigan