Shaken by minute minutes
counting concrete blocks on town sidwalks,
words melting out the mouth
passing through ears like
the fraction of sight
carrying a nameless face.
Dirt once was alive too
and for those seeds to grow
a log must rot
and for these foot to move further
my words must die
as my footsteps tread on fall blanketed
paths to a view
of sublimity where the rough rock edges
smooth over the cracks left
by sharp respite of thoughts
that always fell short.
No need to speak;
the river babbles below
telling me a gentle story
where I need not know
any proper noun.
To dark green pines and sun drenched fields,
you give me your grace
and I will give you
what love never was received
by flesh and mind.
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