The Sound of Falling Rocks
Months piled up on themselves,
became a road block.
I can still hear
the sound of falling rocks.
I am concussed by the years.
Bought a pair of new sneakers,
bought a wristwatch that counts steps,
bought a wish and a hope
from a thrift store.
In-between the turning of the days
time flips the script,
becomes a shadow on a sundial,
gives you a plow to push uphill,
the mind falls ill
becomes a landslip
bars a way.
The morning is upside and sunny,
Lilliputian restraints
pop and loosen ligaments.
I am on the road again
but taking it slow
no-place is a better place to go.
Ears pricked, waiting,
suspecting,
ever recalling
the distant sound of falling rocks.
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