“No place is permanent,” the gravestones sing, “And even we return unto the dust.” But we who pass the stones forget these things, The grave and what it has to do with us. We move in circles – work, park, market, gym, Perhaps the neighbor’s house, perhaps the church. We circle, tireless, till our soles grow thin, And only then might we begin to search For permanence of which all dust has dreamed, Which graveyards, undisturbed, have not yet known: A city, strong as cedar and as green, For fairer country, higher ground, or home. To those who circle not, but bend their knees – Theirs is the better land, the mountain breeze.
Absolutely lovely!