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
