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If I were a rock
I wouldn't be in such
a rush all the time.
I wouldn't be dis-satisfied,
the way I so often am now,
I'd be fine with things
the way they are.
I'd have no need for seeking.
I'd be content to sit and let
the world come to me.
Because all things would cross
my path in time.
And I'd have a lot of time.
As a rock, I'd live
for millenniums.
The years going by would be to me
like days are for you.
Impervious to heat,
cold, rain, or worry,
I'd have time to hear the plants gossip
and watch the trees woo one another.
I'd watch as the leaves,
twigs, and bodies of so-called
higher life forms surrendered
their egos to the earth
and became dirt.
I'd give quiet assurance
to the weeds and the grass
that all would be well.
I'd give shelter to the slugs and the worms
that lived beneath me and
tickled my bottom.
If I were a rock I
would be solid.
I would have no hollow spaces
in need of poems, or hugs,
or silly love songs.
I would have no emptiness to fill.
Once I invited a friend
to see my rock garden.
Where are the plants? She asked.
No plants, I said. Just rocks.
It's a rock garden.
But rocks don't do anything, she said.
They don't even grow.
They don't have to do anything, I said.
They're already grown.