The
stones are lightly held between the roots
of hopeful lives that rise and rock
like trees.
Their leaves shake several seasons in the air,
they feel a
while the light for which they grow
and then are seasoned bare. I
do not live by hope, but certainty.
I hold stones tight: these are the things
I know.
I build a tower of them. I do not grow.
Distrustful of the air
through which I go
I rise, back foremost, slowly to the light. A
growing tree contains both rock and sun.
A loving man has made his facts catch
fire
while the wise coward shuffles under him
a heap of facts: his tower
is never done.
Cowards die clinging to their sullen heap
unheated by the
light of their desire.
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