Stone on the Street

I wondered upon a stone on the street;
Obviously, not there by its choosing.
Its face laid stoic among the chaos -
A strange, aberrant agreement I shared.

For if the stone were to ever be moved,
It’s most certainly by an outside force.
Cause by its own preference, comes quiet peace,
Most public things are preferred to avoid.

And streets loud with traffic are not ideal,
A stone’s character seems not to comply.
And to those who pass, stones are hardly seen;
But from the stone’s view, each passing is burden.

How nervous a stone must feel, surrounded;
A self consciousness to weak to avert.
The surrounding world seems so magnified;
Where the smallest things can steal every thought.

At last I picked up the stone on the street
And deposited it under an oak.
As I left it alone to its own thoughts
I asked quietly, “Why can’t that be me?”