This is not a rock —
it’s a peony in May
that keeps opening.

This is not a rock —
it’s a bud, a tight cocoon,
waves that keep coming.

This is not a rock —
it’s the moon with a shadow,
heavy in my hand.

This is not a rock —
it’s a walk around the lake
till we’re different.

This is not a rock —
it’s lonely constellations,
ignored, forgotten.

This is not a rock —
it’s a full moon on its side,
floating in a pond.

This is not a rock —
it’s a measure of earth, time
speaking in fragments.

I breathe on this earth,
decades next to this river,
I am weight, weight, weight.