In spring, we take a deep seat
and watch water run, follow
green up into infinite blue,
trace our ridgelines to walk
among the helpless dead –
talk with family and friends
so bored with their reward
they have come to visit when
heaven rests upon the earth.
But looking down into grass
gone blond with hollow stem,
past light and empty heads,
I find my infinite ignorance
in the dirt where I depend
on living, upon nameless
seed of grass and weed
busy ants save like grain,
that birds regurgitate and
winds take to another place –
like me someday scattered,
just trying to understand.
drycrikjournal 