What precious stones have fallen
to ripple through the unknown.
A wilderness of insects,
the minute exactness
of wing intricacy
tick ticks in the undergrowth.

In grass by the footprints of man
the whole world has grown
around sure infant heels,
its earthy shadow lingers
as first perceptions of death

are weaved gently into fables,
stroking our children's sacred brow
wisely with sorrow - Where
did Grandpa really go? Yet

on the fringe of morning,
the shrinking world falling
back around our footprints - They wonder
with reason, posing their first questions
                                                          of God.