By Paul Hawkwood
How warm is the rock on our roads?
What rocky consciousness lies there?
There’s no beating blood
in the aggregate –
just lime and rock and sand.
It can survive centuries of sun
but is worn down by winds
and the passing of a million tires
wearing a rutted path from my house
What happens when you sit still
for so long and let the grooves grow?
When you let wind and rain and rubber
wear you into shape
while you patiently become as still
as the cosmos?