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The Boulder
Born a boulder; ah, those early years
when weather of every flavor, cousins even,
took heed there was no impact to be had.
Delayed as it was, in the tick, tick of boulder years
suns and moons slid and slipped
but the boulder could ill afford a miser’s sigh for either.
There was a moment; elements, not knowing why or trying,
found purchase in craggy cracks having sprouted unawares,
less boulderly for the gentle slaying by untouchable things.
Fire and Ice, opposites to extinction,
traded leads in the opera Apathy through which the world whorls
for the implacable to learn the hardest truths.
Only as sand, from there and now here, rendered without smile or tear;
Why, that foggy jut of land never reached?
Once, water would have parted.
Silence reigned from or to the million pieces
upon which there was once no impact to be had.
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