As the earth laminates,
great cities and ziggurats arrive and leave,
broadcasting their peerage
across the sweeping countryside.
A mounded plain keeps the soils
of meso-american days, clinging
like lichen on old stones.
Hemlock stitched valleys
and hillsides dusted with the chalk of memories
lie down and wait to become limestone and chert.
Should we be any different?
Should we not rise and fall in our season?
Then I must find a rock to hold my poems down.