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It Sort Of Alliterates

I'm a cheerful ball of clay
See me rolling down the slope
Tumbling forth stochastically
Slowly gathering full shape
My only maker gravity
Molded of some dust and rain
And salt and pressed to solid form
Out of which grass blades cut through
And another and more still
Softening the tumble more
They extend toward the sun
Growing roots that soak and feed
That chip and crack me outside in
Turning clay to dust again