To An Ancient

Your claims to immortality were two.

The one you made, the other one you grew.

Sorry to have no name for you but You

We never knew exactly where to look,

But found one in the delta of a brook,

One in a cavern where you used to cook

Coming on such an ancient human trace

Seems as expressive of the human race

As meeting someone living face to face.

We date you by your depth in silt and dust

Your probable brute nature is discussed.

At which point we are totally nonplussed.

You made the eolith, you grew the bone,

The second more peculiarly your own,

And likely to have been enough alone.

You make me ask if I would go to time

Would I gain anything by using rhyme?

Or aren’t the bones enough I live to lime?