I’m a rock.
Well, sometimes I say rock, but other times pebble feels more right.
The point is
I look up and see your flapping pants, hear rubbery shoes clump by
Blurred voices, car horns, wind.
You don’t see me. You pass by, step over. Step on…
I sink into the softness: Mud moss, dirt damp.
I’m metamorphic, I’m hard.
I’m the ground.
You, you’ve been known to slip, trip, topple, spill.
Watch your step,
I’m landscape. I stay put.