poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

This is the grass your feet are planted on.
You paint it orange or you sing it green,
        But you have never found
A way to make the grass mean what you mean.

A cloud can be whatever you intend:
Ostrich or leaning tower or staring eye.
        But you have never found
A cloud sufficient to express the sky.

Get out there with your splendid expertise;
Raymond who cuts the meadow does not less.
        Inhuman nature says:
Inhuman patience is the true success.

Human impatience trips you as you run;
        Stand still and you must lie.
It is the grass that cuts the mower down;
It is the cloud that swallows up the sky.

Added: 25 Mar 2002 | Last Read: 11 Feb 2012 11:34 AM | Viewed: 5075 times

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