Cicada Mountain

At the meadow's further corner where The wood begins, I saw it there: The gray bones sprawling on the ground, The sweet grass growing thick around.

No right like his who stumbles on Grim relics of the mastodon Was mine. For, rising through the skull And ribs, wild flowers were beautiful.

Through the eye-sockets clambers up The frail audacious buttercup, And clover nestles by the teeth- No longer made afraid by death.

Looking upon these bones I trace The history of lost pride and grace; Some remnants of their speed and power Are smoldering even to this hour.

Now time turns back for me: I am The eye that sees you by your dam, Mercurial, long-legged, shy, Lifting your head to snuff the sky.

Growing in strength, you race the sward With primroses and daisies starred, Nuzzle your manger, roll in grass, As if your youth would never pass.

But pass it did. You dragged the plough Through fields beyond where you lie now, Though once you held no hedge too tall When you heard the pack and the huntsman call.

Time crawled on; the young squire forgot Whether you were alive or not. And when you dropped he did not miss You gone, till your bones were bare like this.