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William Stafford Sunday
by Rob LittlerThe upstart weed makes the crack home—
tucked away glory where somehow
Soil is found, and its flourishing is known.
To the world its being, fleshed out and about
And seen as passing grace on the motorists face,
A child watching the trefoil spread, from one place
To another, without so much as a memory
Of ever being Whispered into the Ground, this endless game
Being played over
And over
Again.
01/08/2012 Posted on 01/08/2012
Copyright © 2025 Rob Littler
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 01/10/12 at 02:43 PM The first place I'm heading/heeding this morning is to where cement opens. Placing my ear to its ground. Listening for the whisper, listening over and over.
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