Small Words

Tales told by that still, small voice
Of small words, in which things go

Well, for a change, for a while,
Then west, like ghosts, south like terms

Of a deal no one would take
Were it not life, all of it—

Those are the tales small words hide,
Phrase by phrase and packed in lines,

Jammed down hard, wedged tight as stones
In the walls of the sealed tomb

That will sink down in the grass,
Down through soil and muck, but last.

Once the words have sunk, their tales
Bloom the odd coin from that soil.

The soul who stops by the hill
To pass a storm in its shade

May find one and take it home
To hold and stare in the face

Of a worn god on one side
With a vague beast on its back.