Inklings of Immortality
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
Perhaps these stones are where the gods sit when
We spend mere time away from boulders, waste
Our spirits. Rocks like these wait not for men
But for a lavender or purple chaste
Enough for Christ or Buddha, Yahweh, soaked
In oceans of a steeped perfection. Trees
Grow here between the granite hulks evoked
When deity first uttered out the seas
And land. Between the trunks and sarsen shapes
Are mortal grasses, also, shredded shade
More brief, too brief, like doomed rags, torn up capes
Where lesser gods and lesser saints soon fade.
Those flowers that live one day or night then die
Are holy though they do not stretch strength’s sky.
~ Phillip Whidden