15 January 2008


496
We do not carry lessons to the field of tall grass
Nor instruction there receive--
Though the winded stalks in a whisper's guise
May gossip of the infinite, or the rain to come--
We but hear a measure of our own moment passed.

2 comments:

zhoen said...

A sadly neglected old building, with a jaunty red windsock.

Pacian said...

Momentary refuge here from the zombies, but better to remain mobile, I think.