No one but death the redeemer will humble that head. - Robinson Jeffers

Mother, though my song's measure is like your surf-beat's ancient rhythm I never learned it of you. Before there was any water there were tides of fire, both our tones flow from the older fountain.

Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you fore-defeated Challengers of oblivion Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down, The square-limbed Roman letters Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain.

I sadly smiling remember that the flower fades to make fruit, the fruit rots to make earth.