For what should not
Like the greens in Spring
Vines creeping
Up the sides of your leg
Moss involved in lineage.
Memory was lost
With blue-black baskets
That bobbed unevenly
About hands of ancient grain
Settling into the hallows.
And River flowed
With anonymous voices
That reached the trees
And clouds, boulders, and lichen,
And touched the lips
Of each those lost.