Child's Park Stones
In
sunless
air,
under
pines
Green
to
the
point
of
blackness,
some
Founding
father
set
these
lobed,
warped
stones
To
loom
in
the
leaf-filtered
gloom
Black
as
the
charred
knuckle-bones
Of
a
giant
or
extinct
Animal,
come
from
another
Age,
another
planet
surely.
Flanked
By
the
orange
and
fuchsia
bonfire
Of
azaleas,
sacrosanct
These
stones
guard
a
dark
repose
And
keep
their
shapes
intact
while
sun
Alters
shadows
of
rose
and
iris
—-
Long,
short,
long
—-
in
the
lit
garden
And
kindles
a
day's-end
blaze
Colored
to
dull
the
pigment
Of
azaleas,
yet
burnt
out
Quick
as
they.
To
follow
the
light's
tint
And
intensity
by
midnight
By
noon
and
throughout
the
brunt
Of
various
weathers
is
To
know
the
still
heart
of
the
stones:
Stones
that
take
the
whole
summer
to
lose
Their
dream
of
the
winter's
cold;
stones
Warming
at
core
only
as
Frost
forms.
No
man's
crowbar
could
Uproot
them:
their
beards
are
ever-
Green.
Nor
do
they,
once
in
a
hundred
Years,
go
down
to
drink
the
river:
No
thirst
disturbs
a
stone's
bed.
