August 27, 2010
I stain your stone walls,
encrust the bark on your maples,
scrawl on the rusted fender
of your abandoned pick-up.
I survive the desert,
the arctic tundra, on sidewalk.
I am the first to inhabit
the barren places of the earth.
Imagine what it is
to be bound to granite,
to penetrate pockets of air
between its crystals, to freeze
and thaw for centuries, flaking
the rock, creating a thimble of dust.
You, who are born and live and die
while I grow a few inches across
the names on your gravestones,
you know nothing of such faithfulness.
— Marie Prentice
Posted by Jerome Doolittle at August 27, 2010 09:35 AM
I don't like poetry, but I like this.