Ground has been broken.
It is coming along with callused hands,
bloody knuckles, slimy elbows
and the shoulders
of Atlas.
Making progress?
Making is a process,
even when done
this way before-
there is a rhythm
in the rhyme.
To each his own to find.
The ones near the top
are fools gold
bodies that steal the sun.
You'll need to dig deeper.
When it all caves in
you can hear a faint echo
where labor lost love.
And as you go down,
ear to the earth, grumbles;
but from above, glistening.
Erecting glass towers,
prisms with poise,
one stone away
from crystallography.
Yes, we may get buried
over.
Yet, we must continue
on schedule,
with slotted setbacks
spaced out.
Rock. Water. Bone.
Not to worry,
it all comes out right
when done.
Once all fine points (grains)
are settled,
resistance quelled,
the dirt goes back
right
where it flows
best,
in order
to rest in peace,
on this sight we will make
it
on
Time.
Image By Yoav Dothan (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
