They are not mute. They've earned
the right to silence, having rubbed
against centuries of substances with
varying hardness, sometimes more than
their own. They are not just pallid grey
or brown or black. They wear not only
the drab mineral uniform of those
taught to keep their heads down
unless called, and the rest
of the time remain in unobtrusive
service. On closer inspection, even
the smallest of them holds
fortresses with a hidden arsenal
of color: speckled ochre and verdigris,
milky bands smaller than a millipede's leg.
And my favorites— those who hoard
russets like fire, like blood, everything
that pulsed within range of their absorbing.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
