Red Stem Filaree – April 5, 2011
While we slept, the grass grew
an inch overnight beneath the clouds
and passing showers, working overtime,
as the dry earth spun beneath them—
as the creek edged down through sand
and gravel, seeping over the granite dikes
that lump its bed, towards the river
and settlements downstream. I dreamed
we were the end of the line
living on a lake amid thick timber,
fat fish flashing bellies to the sun
and fresh meat hung in a tree.
No other world beyond but more
of the same, working on its own—
no children slain in schools for effect,
no political charades, no slaves
to bankers banking on superfluous debt—
and the grass grew taller, while we slept.
