I farm a pasture where the boulders lie
As touching as a basket full of eggs,
And though they’re nothing anybody begs,
I wonder if it wouldn’t signify
For me to send you one out where you live
In wind-soil to a depth of thirty feet,
And every acre good enough to eat,
As fine as flour put through a baker’s sieve.
I’d ship a smooth one you could slap and chafe,
And set up like a statue in your yard,
And eolith palladium to guard
The West and keep the old tradition safe.
Carve nothing on it. You can simply say
In self-defense to quizzical inquiry:
‘The portrait of the soul of my grand sir Ira.
It came from where he came from anyway.’