Jade Grass

Stone hills wear down. Who will read
These slips of green? Who will read

When the tongue is gone and ears
Hear just the weird in old words,

Or when the last one who knew
Has gone, and no one can read,

Or when they’re all gone, all those
Not yet here, all gone by then?

The poem codes its own fool dreams
Of change, of life, of what lasts.

This won’t last. Read it or not.
So long as there’s life, there’s rot.