Poetry Series: From the Riverbed; The Sculptors
By Emerson Rinehart
From the Riverbed
If you did not hear me
Crying out against time,
Come to this shady stream side.
If you never saw me
Throw sand against wind,
Stand by this mound of stone.
And if you never found me
Fighting my one barren battle,
Reach and pick fruit from my tree.
In this kind curse you are given,
Over lands still paled by our scars,
Hear the passion that ceaselessly screams.
Find rebellious fire
In the hearth of desire
And the song to lull you to sleep.
Still know all the while
That their words are but whispers;
Murmurs of stones
Plucked and returned
To the riverbed.
The Sculptors
The ones who mold the forest
Hide in cool shaded brooks,
And under rich humus blankets.
Mute creatures of patience
Leave the dead where they lay,
And with enduring alchemy transmute.
The unending shift
Of this to that,
Of one to another.