Dry Stems

A stand of stems rising,
Dry in the sun.
Rich soil underneath,
That matures everyone.

Trembling soft winds,
Stretch grasses up high.
And is urged by the springtime,
To live and not die.

Along the fenceline,
Growths are emmense.
All tangled, embedded,
They stay on the fence.

They lean in direction,
Where the least effort goes.
And wrap their long strands,
Where true action shows.

Humans have dry stems,
Where learning has stood.
If they are up-rooted,
It makes them feel good.


E.P. 1908- 1989