Porous Grey

Under the faucet's stream,

a grey stone, dreaming

of ocean floors, perhaps,

or volcanic traps.

It's pitted, old, and damp,

my small shower lamp

reflecting its dull sheen.

It makes the rough spots clean.

A gentle rub, and skin

softens, lets a newness in.

The grit is fine, a kind

of patient, quiet grind.

The sharp edges gone, you see,

a softer, gentler me.