Five stones sit,
in a circle perhaps,
or possibly a square,
or maybe in no shape at all.

Round and smooth,
from crashing waves,
and scraping sand,
formed from hardship, shaped from strife.

Grainy and porous,
rock two stands,
high on its throne of pompousness,
full of nothing but air.

Small and young,
innocent in its cleanliness,
the small bead
knows only itself
and its shiny grin.

Flat and square,
brick of immobility,
originality pains while
convention is its prayer,
and discipline its reason.

Tall and narrow,
confident in its stance,
the last rock
smiles in its knowingness,
yet lets on nothing to the others.

Five rocks of different origins,
bringing unique gifts,
none is single,
all are one,
five rocks sitting in the sun.

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