This natural paperweight, this stone
on my desk, pink granite peppered black,
I rescued from a watery home

where waves lapped shoreward, roiled, pulled back,
washed over, rolled, threatened to pound
it to pebbles, then sand, weather-cracked

and battered, to crumble in the sound
with old shells, dead creatures, entropy
acting on beauty, polishing round

and glassy, passing it through ropy
kelp and reed, till nothing would remain,
nothing for display. This sea trophy,

this piece of geology detained,
abraded only by a nervous thumb
absently rubbing over its grain,

pacifying, seems to soothe in some
primeval way. I forget the crime
of erosion, blunt forces that numb,

grind edges of all things in their prime,
and wear me down, one cell at a time.

09/21/2001

Author's Note: First published in The Barefoot Muse, Summer 2005.

Posted on 09/21/2001
Copyright © 2025 Bruce W Niedt