Just because we stop, the world
does not see fit to up and quit:
although we think our present season
the focus of the universe.
Just because our silicon
has returned back to native dust,
and what we’ve turned with artists’ hands
from ore to sculpture soon is rust.
The chlorophyll, almighty green
that courses wild through our bloodstream:
when it has drained away what soul
we once possessed, who will control
the world that constant, presses on
and throws its earth upon the graves
of king and peasant, saint and knave,
who build, discard, then too are gone?
31 JAN 2005
