Rocks of the Road

Down the bend in the long dirt road,
The soles of my boots now are told
That the rocks at my heels will
Never grow old; They shall only grow wiser.

For the rocks on the road have always seen,
The tales of men that have now gone blind.
They are kicked and crushed, rarely preserved,
Yet they retain every bruise, never hidden.

From the rut in the trail, to the grassy curb,
These rocks that I speak of are always there,
They hide undercover in a dusted cloak,
For they are the stone rogues of travel.

As I reach the curve in the muddied pathway,
My eyes lay rest upon the ground; Observing,
As the wildflowers lean over the dirt road,
I shall smile, as I step over my pebble friend.