Of Power and Glory

If I long to be
I am forgotten.

If I pray
to be forgotten,
I am judged.

I am no more
a monument than
grasses, wild cathedrals

of tree,
the brown-winged
bird, his moment

of singing,
flying, clinging
to what he knows.

The worm writhing
in her muddy bed
tunnels lower

and lower where
footprint or claw
can never follow.

1 comment:

Gerry Boyd said...

If only we could truly hide. Bravo!