It lived in the palm of my hand;
Small and heavy
Like a dense pebble,
Like the world's smallest boulder.

I held it out toward the sun,
So all the world could see
      this tiny little thing
Reaching for something more.

My arm grew tired.
My tricep started to quiver.
My bones started to chatter.
The boulder sat, bloated and bleached by sunlight.

50 years later
The boulder sits.
My arm has not moved.
It has grown strong.
It has grown still.
It has grown silent.

The boulder is bigger from dust.
It forged a dent in my palm,
Wearing its way through
Until it finally fell out the top of my hand.

And I strained my eyes to look through
     that round hole in my skin
With puckered skin and smooth edges,
And when I simply couldn't see it,
I resolved to lower my arm.

Down it went.
And with every move, pain accompanied.
The stiffness,
The ache,
The ****** of habit.

And this, my dear,
This boulder.
This is what we have become.