Fathers get stones for their gardens there, <br />near Marriotsville, where the peaks are demure. <br /> <br />The gradual vegetables spring to the front, <br />as the rocks are placed in wished-on gardens, <br /> <br />the primary colors of primary pride, <br />learned from a gruff, Virginia grandfather. <br /> <br />Durability surfaces in the many, <br />and in the many, you are blessed to have it. <br /> <br />At the bottom of beauty, lies a pit; <br />countless rocks harder than a plain man's life, <br /> <br />lay like colors, the earth's tough graffiti. <br />The dust of craven trucks crossing the roads, <br /> <br />cross the epopees, too, gravel in the belly, <br />off the red edge's gut, doused in its crimson <br /> <br />substance. It is evening; the workers are gone. <br />Surrounding depths may possess a knowledge, <br /> <br />but china clay does not know when a man is dead. <br />The rocks go on sitting, facing a precipice, <br /> <br />they go on reveling in cryptic rains; <br />cold quarry swimming, the start of memory.<br /><br />Lamont Palmer (Lamont Palmer)<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/rock-quarry/
