Old as Old Stones

Now I am old and old stones must be modest soon to

be covered by the blowing dust,

And autumn leaves in the corner of some cemetery;

With yellow, pink, white and red roses in the glow of dawn;

With black bats of night flapping home before dawn on their

       Wings

Death catches us unprepared—we’re like sitting ducks,

So I must be honest and modest. It might be better to let the 

       roof burn and walls crash

Than to write this poem; but fear that not—I will write it.

All dissolves, even solid continents—and quiet rocks, even

       powerful bacteria;

Our time on earth is but a quick rubout.  The whole affair an

       episode in the life of the earth.

So I will finish this poem, speculate the private thoughts of a

       flesh bone-splintered mind

And share with you a glass with flowers in it that flourishes…

One of a few:

When my children were children the white clouds leaped.

I honestly do not know which day was more beautiful.

Now, twenty, twenty-five years have come and gone—

I shall only see these days in dreams, flashbacks,

       and it does not matter,

It does not hurt; they will be there.

And when I have been rubbed out,

And they have been rubbed out, and the whole human

Race has been rubbed out—and all that is left are storms: Mountains, the moon, dawn and twilight, and perhaps a few

       birds; I say this:

“Those few years while they were young will have more of a

       beautiful meaning than all that that has come before it, And Gone after it.”

#3388 (8-8-2012)