I Am a Stone
by Summit Troutman
I am a stone
Whose rough contours are honed
By the trickle of days and
Rushing of years.
I lay in a river,
Its sandy bed the remains
Of my forefathers,
Shrunken and smoothed with time.
Oh, let me become minute
That I can say I have lived
A full life! And not bleed out
On the jagged rocks of some foreign land,
My scarlet river pumping
Forth, wasted, too quick to weather my edges,
Like a gladiator’s
Needless, forgotten death.