a poet can write about a pebble and make a page of it
he'll tell you all about the texture, and any lumps or bits
he'll tell you how it feels to touch, and smell and see and taste
but by writing much about a pebble, an hour of time he wastes

time that could be productive, time that could be used
not time spent in tune with a pebble, time that's been abused

he'll tell you how the pebble came to be in this its place
he'll tell you all about it's life and the history of the pebble race
he'll tell you how the pebble travelled, far and worldy wide
but the fact that he's just dossing, in words he'll never hide

so he looks at the pebble, the pebble looks back
stone cold, blank faced, stiff
oh he could be a pebble too, he wonders, what and if
if a pebbles life's worth living, or is it just a bore
to spend a thousand years, just sitting on the floor

or maybe, it could be quite fun, to live a pebble life
to start out as a massive boulder on a mountain side
to slowly feel the wear and tear of natures harsh caress
layer by layer of sediment the weathers hands undress
to grow smaller day by day, chip by chip
eventually to wash so small that down the hill you slip
landing in a stream or brook, taken for a ride
or maybe by a glaciers grasp, pulled over countryside
and as the transformation comes, though it comes so very slow
after a millenia becomes the pebble we know

kicked by foot, from place to place, til ere it did now land
to end up being touched and felt by one poor poets hand
and now though left alone again to crumble soon to dust
the pebble now immortal, in words that write i must.