CUP AND RING
This wind from the fist of the storm,
This roaring in the pines,
These tumbling waters
From the fist of the mountains.
Time is the ache that sifts between fingers
And knots the locks of thought.
Bright swords are dulled with using;
Words ignored, unheard once more.
Those who chiselled the flat cold rocks knew this.
They have their voices still, and their long shadows
At the short days, return the sun, return the small hope
That lasting will be better than leaving.
Though leaving will bring rest and song.
That life will sift and slip through the fist
Of indomitable emptiness,
Whisper in patterns, find names and breath.
Circles ripple on stone.
Time is not a crop to give its yield.
The gold is elsewhere, glistening.
—
simonhlilly 