of all that dwells in this place,
grows, crawls, dies
and disappears.

of all that lived here
before there was foot fall
and arrogant machines,
only their ghosts remain undisturbed.

we slice the sod with shovels
look for evidence in history
count the rings in the fallen oaks
catalogue grasses and their brethren

use words to define,
explain and contain
and at times delight,
and render language
to conquer.

for without language
we fear we'll not know
that all that was here
was here without words.

but the ghosts of the field
remain untouchable, unrecorded
knowable only by tongueless spirit
and the unfathomable grace
of knowing god without
language.