we say they gather nothing
as they roll
(moss, or otherwise)
but what if we surmise
that they gather all?
stream droplets and moon
shine and the drunken breeze
that sends them spinning
or the sea glass shards that
keep them sitting fast
in their own decline.
they gather tears, assemble
years. collect dust and muster
up old truths. the proof:
the way they stay. get cast.
last eons. stand tall and sometimes
green and seen. build cathedrals,
thrones. get thrown by angry hands.
they’re carved and caved and pocket
-saved, pebbled thoughts held fast
and tossed into the sea. and we,
(so like them and unlike them),
worry our fingers across their faces
and smear the moss that grows
as warpaint on our cheeks.
Attempted for day 7 of NaPoWriMo.