by Roger Wilcox
No one rests here anymore.
Tumble weeds pause to check the land.
Sage brush and desert daisies have replaced any grass.
Stones are up-rooted by the progress of insects
building new cities in the sand.
Our fathers' brothers or cousins once lingered here,
their children did not remain.
Long ago, plains far greener called them away.
Now, we ask "why did they stay?"
Dry winds and dust conceal any pain.
Peace is not the absence of change.
Nature has not lost her claim
and day and night are all the same.
I once slept near here - passing through
To take a look at the silent view.
Stillness is an illusion of time,
and eternity rolls in circular lines.
