'Stone and Soil'

There's beauty in your facade.
you've trimmed yourself so well
and while below me you're far from
beneath; An open hand is met with solid resistance,
yet when I prod with just a finger
I find you're not as stable as you appear.
Treading gently seems the best advice.
So easy on the eyes I can barely take mine away,
though the dusting of red distracts occasionally.
Small pools of blue, crystal clear but icy-hard
offer no answers, despite the ripples
which show you're not as solid as the stony expressions
that dart across your landscape.
Too late I find I've brushed up against ivy,
and the itch is growing.
I grit my teeth, perhaps stop scratching. I pretend it's nothing
and really I suppose it is. You're nature-formed, so my catching this rash is certainly little more than a game to you -- you've
no more attention for me than a passing stormcloud.
Even a lush glade needs a little sting of rain to keep growing.
but that doesn't alter how real a small oasis of nature looks
after seeing nothing but the bland concrete jungle for so long.