Streaming
Time
A field of polished
stones
cushioned in spring
grass;
a blanket of renewal
pulled
up snug against
eternity.
These people are not
mine.
But I am reminded of
those
now gone; their
fragile bones
lying quiet under
Prairie corn
or under other stones
- an age,
an ocean or a
continent away.
In this garden, lush
with memory,
the river of the grassy
blanket runs
between the
stones. These lives
have had their moment
in the stream
of time —and now it’s
ours.

