I am the smell and feel of wet, cold stone,
a Monument, to older days.
I am the whisper of an early spring
slipping through blades of rain-soaked grass.
I am distant hills, shrouded in mist,
a soft footfall touching down on fresh earth.
I am a bowstring being pulled taut,
a glimpse of stars on a cold night,
a raging, merciless ocean storm.
I am a river running through,
lost
on its way to somewhere.
