By Charles M. Sumid     Copyright 2025     Written 2016

Limestone at the library entrance,
carved straight a century ago.
Now the center of each step
cups itself
to catch the rain of feet.

Where traffic flows most,
between handrails,
the stone has given way.
Three inches at its lowest.

The first step,
where people pause
to check their phones,
shows a restless pattern.
The seventh, a diagonal
worn clear
where children took the corner
running.

Winter mornings,
these hollows fill with water
that freezes into lenses,
magnifying the grain beneath.

The marble steps
at the new courthouse
still refuse every footfall.
These limestone stairs
have learned to hold.

At closing time,
the janitor’s mop
follows these channels.
Water finding the path
feet have argued
is the right way through.