A simple crust between man and oblivion.
One hundred fragile summers left,
maybe less, dark cushion for jewels,
trodden with unseeing soles.
There is art down there if we know
to sketch its lines, sculpt its frame,
shade the subtleties of its face
drawn long from spring to frost.
The pulse thrives between our fingers,
crumbles the warm tilth,
lets through the twisting root
searching for the core of life’s longing.