Passion

Beyond that faint thought,

through the meadows and creeks,

I see a monument held

up by the stone. Cold, firm,

Structured to balance the weight.

Inside the visitor center we read

the plaque: "Here inside a man

stands and never sits."

His stoic face traced in grays

and blacks and flecks of silver.

But there still shone just a gleam,

just a spark in his eye.

And with his hand pointed

the sun falling through the cloud,

I can feel his wrist catching

and lifting our star back into

the sky. I too never sit-

as long as I can

for the pocket ticks and

I must rise again.

Dust can't gather on

a monument, and dusk can't

set unless it is given

permission.