Through this often stillness, the waters speak themselves.
The streams drink rain, and drink without ceasing,
Until they rise, majesty unconcerned,
And cleanse the rounding fields. Death
May, and death may not: the waters do not care.
Their carelessness is sure sign of God,
Who works through them.
Agents not imbued by wisdom
Work without remorse.

"Beauty" is a trite word, when placed against its true mark,
As "green" is a misnomered sign
For what shines through the grass.
The insides of the hills know the true names.
And never speak them,
Except when they accept
Another soul for keeping.
Their comfort folds upon the whispered names,
Their ancient twilight holds them close.

"If a man has sight, he sees only things,
But if a man has vision, he sees through them."
"If a man makes money, he spends it, still clutching.
But if a man earns wealth, he uses it, building."
  As a pallette for one's vision,
  Wealth will resist its darker side.

In this place, no vision may redeem,
Unless these stones surround the pitted face.
In this place, wealth may grow extreme
Unless these waters give it by their grace.

The balanced tableau, the even-winged mind,
Has remembered past and beauty and set them
Against the step of progress. He who would allow
The future purchase here, would not at once forsake
  A heritage sublime, upon whose stones
  Tomorrow takes its proper place.

When visioned eyes are silver-sealed,
And lowered in the ground,
Their vision rightly is revealed
And made at once profound.
When in this place, the flooded streams
Escort the body home,
The grass will pace in endless dreams
By twilight on the stone.

© 1989 Chuck Puckett