Of The Stone of the Place by Robert Frost
(with slight variations by Sia)
Posted in honor of the annual Brigid Cyberspace Poetry Slam
I farm a pasture where the boulders lie
As touching as a basketful of eggs,
And though they're nothing anybody begs,
I wonder if it wouldn't signify
For me to send you one out where you live
In wind-soil to a depth of thirty feet,
And every acre good enough to eat,
As fine as flour put through a baker's sieve.
I'd ship a smooth one you could slap and chafe,
And set up like a statue in your yard,
An eolith palladium to guard
The West and keep the old tradition safe.
Carve nothing on it. You can simply say
In self-defense to quizzical inquiry:
"The portrait of the soul of Grandmother Iris.
It came from where she came from anyway."
Wishing a Happy Lunar New Year (Year of the Metal Rabbit) and a Joyful Imbolc to all here.
Don't forget to feed the birds.
SiaMy thoughts today are with the people of Egypt and all those longing and working to have their voices heard.