On Gunlock’s edge, the cows are grazing.
How does the view from a human look
To the words trying to describe it? They confer.
A chipmunk sidles up, scouting the picnic area.
A fly passes. There’s just enough breeze
To make a soft chuckle from the waves
Against the sandstone rubble of the shore.
All these words had to come from somewhere.
The sunlight on a black ridge of old lava
Sorts into the heat that is being absorbed
And the waves that return to the eyes
Of the words assembling on the bench.
Someone’s ashes are under those stones,
But words suspect the troubles haven’t gone.
A desert hare scurries through prickly pear.
Ash. Stone. Waves. Wind. Sun. Bench. Hare.
The words that hurt thoughts, thoughts
That hurt words, they were always there.
No comments:
Post a Comment