A Pome a Day for a Year

The six rolls over and shows its belly,
now seven, a four and a zero
flash their smiles.
How did we arrive, full of energy
despite miles passed, with nary
a memorial, planted flag like,
or etched upon that stone tablet?

It all cuts off,
the more you travel
vertically, allowing fingers to caress
those grooves of rock, until
a cragged break leads to fragments
where words lay jumbled
and nonsenscial.

The time needed
to peace together the pieces
will never arrive,
and stumbling
across these fractures,
weakening the thread,
the only outcome.