Under an elm, it dawned,
Like the sun rising swiftly in your sleep,
Dark one moment,
Luminescent the next.
Words formed like the arrangement of pebbles in sand,
soon swept away by uncertainty’s ocean.
Crashing over the waves comes the thought,
all things are built today on towers that came before,
and those things mount the tower,
and the next builds and the one after builds…
So what is it to write,
under this elm,
another brick, stone, pebble.
It is an honor to be a column or support,
a temporary line of shingles if not one alone.
What is it to be the temporary curator of the summit,
if not only for a moment?
What crime is it to have paid no respect to the snow to bedrock that has come before you?