Sunday, April 3, 2011

Granite Grasses / Tom Bishop


Granite Grasses

If carbon's breath has any thought or care
when stillness settles, grasses of the stone
will sing their song. They're etched without a moan
on granite faces, igneous aware
of dates, gray bookends standing in the air.
We hear the death song sung by the life-prone,
the music-men enchoired but all alone;
Their music only bares a stone-full prayer.
         To songs of granite grasses, stop and listen:
While tuneful dead are whistling through the runes
as dew in morning's glory can but glisten,
then dry and die in scorching afternoons,
the babies on the altars we will christen
and soon they'll grow the grass that sings our tunes.

---
Tom Bishop
June 2002
U.S.A.

[Poem is in the public domain]

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