In these dry and arid soils
few stand as you stand.
The rest of us
hold up our great, thatched instruments
and pray for coming song
(though no matter how subtle
or sun-scorched
we seem to
resolutely find sand
thicker than blood).
Yet you,
you bend to the driest ground
not to plant harps
or catch some celestial wind;
you feel the accurate,
accurate burning
and stoop to teach us
how to kiss the dust
and return,
lips shining with song.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment