The Rock

He read his poem, and it was good. The rock on the table he had written about Sat perfectly still, anticipating nothing. He had found it beside the sea, And found it, in some strange way, Aesthetically pleasing. Now his work was done, And the sun came warmly through the window. The day was blue. There was no need To speculate further about what the rock Might know. It was its own planet. It sat perfectly still upon the table. The poem described the little world Of which itself and the rock were one.