Grinding Down

My hands were rough, a gardener's plight,

so I grabbed the pumice stone.

It bit my skin with all its might,

a friction I had known.

It smoothed the calluses, you see,

the rough spots on my heel,

but with each scrape, it brought to me

a memory I feel.

Of grinding down the jagged edge,

of things I couldn't bear,

a silent, abrasive pledge

to wear away the care.

It makes the surface soft and new,

like nothing bad was there,

but under all that polished hue,

the tender skin lays bare.