Old words, old bones, old stones:
how quickly we forget!
The rising sun elicits groans;
the world is not up yet.

Describe its arc for fun
without becoming trite.
A sentence with the day begun
is served throughout the night.

And when you rise to speak
your joints refuse the call.
The rich grandiloquence you seek
is lost beyond recall.

Roll up the hill for moss.
For water, roll back down.
A seat upon the throne of loss
requires a broken crown.

Though conquered by the stones,
your bones defeat the word.
And since your Word can raise the stones,
how can it go unheard?

January 21, 1999

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