Deep down where sound is lost
And no one knows they grow
These icicles cold but not ice;
Tiny rivers flow over time
Watery clocks whisper
Of the still air and darkness.
Life still abides below
Blind rustlings and beings
Without one unneeded sense;
The wet touch and dry taste
Guided by the Earth
Pulled by insistent tides.
If stalactites knew
They might be jealous
Of the green land above
Taking all the Sun’s gifts
To cover the earth with life
And us.
But they also know their part
These roots of stone;
Living not life but process,
Sun falls to Earth
To feed the soil
And water the depths,
Refilling gaps and spaces
Under our feet
And ask nothing in return.
whoisfenton 