Weathering

Your head is set.
It's a piece of rock.

And no matter how much water flows over it, or how many clouds pass it in their blue sphere
It won't be changed.

Not even the sharpest, most violent earthquake can crack it down, or shape it.

Formed long ago, through slow processes. It remembers. But it forgets also.

From tiny grains, it is hewn, rising to the surface eventually.
Now it's there, it's part of your mountain.

I've sent my rainstorms, my frosts, my baking sun.
I yearn to break it off, to send it hurtling down the mountain into oblivion.

But it won't budge, it never will.