A Rock, A Stone, A Pebble

A rock,
  a stone,
     from mountain broken
carried down by gravity and time
  —and chance!—yes, always chance—

For there upon your lofty perch
   while viewed you hills and woods and life beneath you
   and overhead the starry nights
                  and sun-spangled-days
                  with clouds and wind
                  and ice and sprays
   turned ever on their dial
       for many long ages and a while
   until you cracked and splintered from your high-topped perch;
       you started, slumped and lurched
       before you tumbled, rumbled, stumbled—
       yes! and dashed and crashed and smashed
           down the incline
                         to your eventual decline
   where you rested before chance brought you lower still—
       lower than the hill under gray of night and fog that chilled
            you to the ambient temperature
                                 of mud
                                     and clay
                            and water, dirt and spray;
    and ocean's happiness was to pound you hard with billowy wave,
         like ruffian knave
             a beating gave
                and ensconced you within
                    a sandy grave
    where time and toil
       —and chance!—yes, always chance—
    left your jagged angularity muted by the restless flow
        and softened edges, rounded now, new-spun shape from beauty's brow,
    now polished, honed and smoothed
       —by quiet waves now soothed—
I pick you up and contemplate your form,
    your beauty and your troubled past.
Gone are the perils and waves and storms,
    all that's left of your tumults vast
               are the polished edges of your grace
                   and elegance, and artistry and comeliness.
It was not chance, though, that brought you here,
    but God, the artist, working to endear:
So now, no mere stone on lofty height,
  but polished pebble of my own delight.

- D. Benning