The rock

The rock sits in the water alone
ripples pooling around its feet
like pleats of the skirt of the girl
who finds herself alone at the dance
sitting near the wall where she
can feel the bass thrumming the wall
through her back
                 it envelops her
like a friend she hasn’t seen in a long
time who’s only just returned
from somewhere far away on a sunny
afternoon so she suggested a picnic
in the mountains on a meadow where
the grass would carpet their lunch
and the mountains would serve
as dining room paintings and daisies
would people their gala thrown
as though for royalty
                      the crowd
of flowers and grass and birdsong
presses against her like glass
in a display case in a museum where
ancient artefacts are indistinguishable
from rocks that might hold secrets
sure but don’t all rocks
keep their own counsel don’t
mountains sing softly to themselves in
the soft dewey light of morning
like friends who hold in their hearts
small miniatures of each other
that are somehow more real than they are