What Doesn't Sink

The slate was laid where the old brick used to break,

fresh path dark with rain when I walked through.

I stopped to watch the water bead and wake

to how it refused to sink, how it just rolled through.

Everything here is made to last—

stone over grass, stone over time.

We bury people under it, make permanence vast,

swear that this holds us in its rhyme.

But the water wouldn't obey.

It sat in the pockets, refused the stone,

refused to believe what we say

about holding on, about staying, about home.

I watched the beads move bright,

each one catching sun like it was leaving,

and I finally understood the sight:

nothing stays. The stone keeps grieving

everything it promises. The light

keeps taking what it held. The night

comes and the water is still there,

teaching: nothing lasts. Nothing. Not anywhere.