Stone moves faster than you,
girl in gray.
Painted hair and ash-dyed feathers
blow like soot
while you stand as still as Mayan time.
Granite could not be prouder.
Poised over your drum,
a doll of fog and smoke,
of chimney, hearth, and steam,
you ply your trade of sullen beauty
to the vast delight
of those who move in color.
Even your laces
are painted with the possibility
of black meeting white.
Children stand enthralled by a stillness
that’s matched only by the asphalt
beneath their eager feet
as they wait for you to come to life.
Then their change hits the bucket,
your sticks hit the drum,
and a gray day goes silver
in this moment of simplicity and grace.
How lucky we are
to be held timeless
in the face of intentional stone.