Not one to think
Not one to move
Not one to say a thing
Just sprawled out on the dirt
The rest sings softly
Or I make it known
What lies beneath the notes
That she carries in her basket
The one down the path
And through the wells
Where the lame doe lies
Or where the tree's trunk
Sinks further than the roots
Themselves
Not one to think
Not one to move
Never to say a thing
Curled up on the granite tile
No comments:
Post a Comment