"Perhaps we are like stones; our own history and the history of the world embedded in us, we hold a sorrow deep within and cannot weep until that history is sung" Susan Griffin

Mud sticks
in clods
I am stuck on you
we are stuck
one kick loosens me
we cling on
we cling on

How, now even in this trudging place
this endless space
you cover me
stones can be bastards

Now, how fingers clutch
ankles bend
dry lips touch
breathing notes

How, now do I peel you off?
we cling on
we cling on
a clod
those bastard stones