ribbed rock slabs
made human by waters that crashed against them millennia
brittle sandstone cakes
that flake off in little
smelling like the blood the waters make them weep
and the sands they’ll one day be;
dancing down the face of a cliff
and cartwheeling into the ocean.
The man who carries away small stones does nature’s work;
his stratified throne,
his fanfare tide,
his treasury sea,
growing only larger with every pebble it swallows.
The oceans could choke down the whole world if they willed it,
but this grand drama
marches endlessly on —
the lands standing mightily
and the waters bent on turning them to sand;
just the rocks, and the sea, and the beach,
and me —
thrusting tiny sunset-colored sandstone daggers into the throat of the ocean
to kill it.