The Rock

A small pillar in the largeness of things,
I cling to her gray-green surface
Where her feet seem too small
As she wobbles here and there about the room.
In my smallness, she is more solid than me.
She is textured and experienced,
Having weathered the rain and hail.
So I huddle by her, my mother,
Until the river, which carves the bank,
Dislodges me to drift away.