Trying not to feel, turning to cold cool granite.
I feel myself crack and weather, falter and fade.
Under the moutain, in the stream, a part of life.
Yet removed, cold and distant.
Can stone weep and feel the pain of dying?
Dying slowly from the inside out.
I am granite, I will never feel again the warmth of another.
The only warmth, mother nature's radiant sun.
Cold, cool, dark granite, the hardest stone.
May 4, 1998