RIPPLES MADE OF GRAINS

 
   Death, be not proud of me,

   I go the way lilies do,

   Or trout among the weeds.
 

   I am the song of sandy rivers,

   Winding slowest where the banks are muck,

   Or slower still in the adjoining bays,

   Where stagnation ends in dreams,

   And the visions, like wings of egrets,

   Do rise, and rise, and rise away...
 

   The burrowing clam,

   Or the schools of minnows, parched,

   Make wondrous fossils,

   And the slates are sometimes cleaned,

   By blowing frost, rampaging rainfalls,

   And the winds are all of one desire, here!

 

- Michael W. Eliseuson