Lava

		
		My nostalgia has run 
		dry as the surface 
		On sun bleached bones.
		Finding some in Idaho,
		I lifted lava rocks 
		With thousand year mold 
		And smashed the bones to bits, 
		Finding the marrow green.

		Down the road a mobile home
		sits idle.  A dissapointed uncle 
		watching it all from the wheel.  
		In every direction, moon rocks.
		And beyond that, mountains.

		Today if I dig deep enough, 
		I can still find things to mill over.
		These quiet days when
		Tommorows are a nothing 
		white, I find myself not
		Struggling to add color.   
		And for a moment wonder 
		If I ever will.  
		
		
 

Back To Collected Poems                       E-mail comments about the poem