Here’s another poem I wrote while thinking about things, and well, you’ll see.
Dying Words
Across the field in the deep
green grass there are words written
in stone and all
of them bound to dampened fogs
for the journey to a new home. Past the leaves
like rain attached to strings caught
in the wind.
Half way to their destination
of light and color splintering the gray sky
the wind pushes them to a slant,
taking a dive in the clumped dirt, belly up.
They deny rolling over, legs thumping limply
burdened with the weight of stones.
The winded dirt covers them in time.