circle of stones, ancient, still.
ritual paths wind round a hill.
no sunshine today, it is lost until spring.
not that it matters, just hear those birds sing!
No chairs yet, I'm sorry, but you know how chairs are.
None of them right, at least not so far.
Still got dry mud, weeds, hopeful seedlings,
grubby knees, animal holes, old feelings,
hours of toil, echoed in stone,
not that you'd know it, even if this were home.
Who lived here before and what did they think?
Of this patch of Earth, what read their ink?
Or older than that, before ink were at all?
What lives are here buried? how did they fall?
Bloom again.
Fruit again.
Dream and love and breathe again.
patch of Earth. patch of Earth.