the rock lies in my hand
it has traveled far
pushed by glaciers
rolled by quick flower streams
and now worn
and smooth it rests
smaller
and less defined
than when torn from the bedrock
it began its journey
so too this one who holds its worn smoothness
gently
this day I wake
feeling worn
and less defined
made smaller by my tumbling twisting journey
worn away by life
eroded, or just smoothed?
I only know
I too am ready to find
a place of rest
where I am held gently
in a Sacred hand
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