Rolling Stone Poem by Roy Ballard

A round stone rolled, I reached and picked it up,
a polished piece of flint, of water's milling;
a slinger's stone to hurl with thong and cup,
whirling till it whizzes, wildly willing
to fly bee-buzzing on its devil's way.
So old a stone laughs transience to scorn.
Oh ancient one, I carried you away
to where my patio is cracked and worn
and there I meant to drop you on the grass
but clumsily I dropped you on the stones
and shattered you to flinty shards of glass
for time had burdened you with brittle bones.
But time can polish every piece anew
and what's a meagre million years to you?