Ballast

I put the stone on the table today.

It’s smaller now, and the edges are gone,

rubbed smooth by the denim and salt-spray

of a year that dragged endlessly on.

My thumb has worn a permanent dent

in the fabric where I kept it pressed.

I don’t remember where the time all went,

or why I thought this would stand the test.

It leaves a circle of grit on the wood,

a fine, gray silt from a mountain’s bone.

I carried it as long as I possibly could,

until I got tired of holding a stone.