I've long thought of granite a cold
heartless mass. Too firm to
ever be hurt or changed.
But
I've heard mention that granite
has a pulse. A heartbeat so
slow and deep almost none
can hear its song.
The wind likes to listen for it.
To hear the metronome of life hidden deep
within the surface or echoed about
on the brisk breeze.
The wind races through the
quarries to find the drumming.
Breezes turning somersaults
with the knowledge that
every gust will eventually shape
and wear down the stone walk.

The granite knows better,
that despite surface erosion
the core will keep the time.
The wind has no heartbeat for itself.
An ethereal force ungrounded
How easily it is
shaped, used, transformed, loved, lost, found
But continuously it soars.
It will keep racing away
searching for the rhythm of the Earth.
Eternally grateful for the granite's confident heart.