A rock in my yard.

I don’t know about that rock.
It sits in my yard alone.
I know not from where it came,
That moss laden, weary stone.

The sycamores drip with rain
Onto the stone drop by drop.
Stoically it echoes not-
A word for the clouds to stop.

It is filled with cracks from hot-
Days of summer heat,
And more still from all those years
Of winter’s icy seat.

Not once has the rock shed tears
Being struck by mower blades,
Cutting the grass that has grown ‘round,
Knowing for it’s own sake tis bade.

So it sits without a sound
Through sun, moon, rain, wind and snow.
Equanimity is it’s name;
Tis always such a sight to behold,

For we are but one and the same
Till the day we return to whence from where we came.

Still love this~
Yes I'm too lazy to say anything else right now.

A touch of Whitman in there.

Always. Frost, Whitman, and the three master haiku writers influenced my writing alot and they continue to do so. Finding a way to express the profane in the mundane is what allows a poem to be written about anything and still be appealing aesthetically.