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Granite Grasses
By TomsPoems
21st CenturyIf carbon's breath has any thought or care
when stillness settles, grasses of the stone
will sing the song. They're etched without a moan
on granite faces, igneous aware
of dates, the bookends, standing in the air.
And hear the song of death sung by the life-prone
music-men in choirs but each alone.
The music only bares a stone-full prayer.
In songs of granite grasses, simply listen
as tuneful dead now whistle through the runes.
Like dew in morning's glory can but glisten
then dry and die in scorching afternoons;
the babes upon the altars we will christen,
as soon they'll grow the grass that sings their tunes.
DayPoems Poem No. 1280
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The DayPoems web site, www.daypoems.net, is copyright 2001-2005 by Timothy K. Bovee. All rights reserved.
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