“The Seasoned Stock”
The seasoned stock will wither at the thought
Of new proprietors, newest gains, evidence
Of miraculous change in what becomes the cadence
Of an afterthought, inevitable axiom of precedence caught
Short by those who must acquire knowledge wrought or bought
From experience, a bouquet of hardened blossoms in residence
With traditional seed that were yesterday’s weeds whom no fence
Can rule and no conscious quota contain; closures sought,
Nothing short of disproportionate grief must be the end
Since no one here survives the downfall, albeit biographers abound.
Some well-meaning muse once said to me that magnificence abides
In waters’ rampant fluid stance upon these dried sands, their presence hides
But evanescent progress insofar as what is persistently profound attends
What is in fact a deadly witness that what is lost is always found.