Red Grass
This is the place where speculation ends,
For certainties lie sprawled upon red grass,
Implied in all that mortal stain ****tends,
As wine drips slowly from a broken glass.
Speculation inches time between hells,
When frantic little gnats of worry hum
With fears and hopes, and ears deafened by shells
Fret the silence for sound that peace has come.
A shell writes period. Fingers claw the earth,
Seeking to root in the certainty of sod;
And then-- too frail to grasp and hold its girth--
Let go and clasp the certainty of God.
For speculation ends upon red grass,
When shells drink to the dregs and drop the glass...
For a friend who died too far away... and far too soon.
(R.I.P., C. H.)
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