Sitting at the base of a waterfall,
the trickle beats on hardened rocks.
Millions of drops unite as one.
Falling on their own accord from a stream carved by time.
The droplets assault with furious force—leaving divots
so small a geologist wouldn’t care.
I come to this place from time to time—finding
small changes here and there.
The discrete revisions may not be seen (even by the rock).
With time and power—the shift is clear.
Today I realize that I am the rock—pounded
perpetually by choices and changes.
I may not see how petty changes shift the whole.
That is, until the normal of today
separates from the normal of yesterday.
Written 23 April 2012
I really enjoy the concept here my only remark would be that with your poetry… show not tell. Instead of telling me you are the rock, show me you are the rock and let me figure it out. You do this so well in other aspects of your writing that I believe if you apply it in your poetry, it will be astouding.
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