Urns of Stone
Two springs of color, red and green,
Are rushing down the mountain
While blending in with the unseen.
One soft and long, the other rough,
They both descend with fervor,
As if their speed were not enough.
The firs are watching by, all mute.
No birds are seen disturbing
These torrents, stern and resolute.
Beheld by clouds above, they rise
To ever greater heights of
Quiet splendor, restful in their size.
Could one mould time in urns of stone
To watch its stillness growing
So that no creature is alone?
I cannot fathom Nature’s aim
Yet, in my bursts of passion,
I still reach out to watch her flame.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
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