I hold in one hand a hollow stone.
The other hand grips a round white rock -
maybe a time-smoothed chunk of a bone.
I try not to hit my own fingers as I knock
these two pieces together and find
that my mortar now contains only dust.
There's nothing left of you to grind.
When I first found you, I was bold
to pick you up and think I could
break you down and then remold
you into the guy I thought you should
be. I worked nonetheless; my hands became
callused as I pounded you with my pestle,
trying to connect my fantasy with your name.
In my mind, you changed and bit by bit
were formed into perfection. I smiled
at the result of my labor, not realizing it
had been completely in vain. The mild
powder that remained was light and blew
away in the wind, and now I've forgotten
what so needed changing - now that I've nothing left of you.
|