Stalactites.

Deep down where sound is lost And no one knows they grow These icicles cold but not ice; Tiny rivers flow over time Watery clocks whisper Of the still air and darkness.

Life still abides below Blind rustlings and beings Without one unneeded sense; The wet touch and dry taste Guided by the Earth Pulled by insistent tides.

If stalactites knew They might be jealous Of the green land above Taking all the Sun’s gifts To cover the earth with life And us.

But they also know their part These roots of stone; Living not life but process, Sun falls to Earth To feed the soil And water the depths, Refilling gaps and spaces Under our feet And ask nothing in return.