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I, Rock

by Ted King


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.