From robust silvery-grey,
Standing amidst the torrents and the gently falling mist,
To brown, and then rich maroon.
The minutes, hours, days take wing
Unnoticed except in reflection.
Old man arbor,
Bearded with lichen, stooped, yet towering,
Watching his daughters.
The seedlings metamorphose,
Sprout to sapling, drinking in the sun.
A sign, fastened with burgundy,
Gray, worn canvass, painted with uneven script,
Announcing a station, a lowly caste.
Resplendent in the gold of sunset,
Bronze covering items of little value.
Ingested words, jargon meal,
Smattering of specificity, mental images, laid to page,
A bitter offering, dissatisfying, served cold.
Of what prayer are they born,
And to whose ears supplicate?
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