by Bert Alweiss

Created on: April 27, 2009   Last Updated: June 13, 2009

There's a hopper dead in the grass

Coeval with my bursting mind to smithereens last

That I spread freely among the elements to trace

What unsung history lies in the gossamer grass.

Lucky, a hopper has no genesis of wounds

That speaks of Father or Son or Spirit

Or arms that blight its lair, the turf

With stains eternal of gunpowder blast.

Green lands and icecaps its flight once did see

From here and everywhere.

Now it stays in the silence of wings and leaves

Upon a disemboweled earth, under a monoxide sky.

Learn more about this author, Bert Alweiss.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.