untitled poem 1

Mar 29, 2008 - 23:29 PM PST

Pen point to machines with ink
Bring back that original style
And preserve the stoic plant
Whose arms have read the young

Where grass tickles ankles bare
From dangerous skirts that breed
Kisses stolen in summer shade
And make men of eager boys

Sipping the sun with smiles written
In your rustling song only to burn
With the first cold breaths of wind
Bringing the crisp orange fires

Pray when the white runs
That our monument remembers
To awake and rewrite the
Words as its pages grow

And when paper tells us to go
Weep for the ghosts of the living
For we are to join their solemn chorus
Of words and wood and water