A soft green cushion on hard grey granite,
a spongy pillow for a weary head.
But you are no cushy pushover of a plant
Mr. Bryophyte, no self-effacing softee, you.
For unseen below on the rock face,
you turn brute, sterile stone
into fine, fertile dust.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Glenn Hubbard
would be pleased to hear them.