The Rock

trees of old slow-dance to flaunt
their flowing evergreen plumes,
river reeds bow and wave
lending their souls to a tune;
clouds huddle close to create
a constant celebration in the sky,
but no one notices me - the rock
as I sit still and wonder why?
yes, I'm cold, and hard to break into,
and so you think I do not give,
but have you watched the wind pierce me
with its sharp, relentless pin-pricks?
for I have stood the test of time,
yet flowed and given of myself,
not in ways that you can see,
until you can see my chiseled self;
years from now, a little boy
will pick me up to hold,
a smooth and rounded pebble I'll be,
for him to love and behold;
and the wind and I will orchestrate
a daring work of art,
over countless years and symphonies,
we'll share our trails to the past;
so while you watch the trees and reeds,
don't forget or dismiss the rock;
I may not have a show or song,
but I would've played my part.