Less Than These Things Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Days in long shadows rejoice,
You have dressed yourself anew in long shadows;
Every morning the same trees grow like colorful bones,
Like bad children,
But by the same measure of eye-sight the shadows grow too,
And then shrivel:
Each day a new dress of coldness under the bodies,
Elongating our sad truancies and yours:
And there they are the shapes without bodies, the dresses
Of churchyards and graveyards,
Who have nothing of their own, and are gone before morning,
But new ones will grow alarmingly quick by the time your
Old nose sniffs this world again:
They will pop up like disembodied orchards and kindergarten
Satellites under the orbs of justice;
They will have whatever they can manage to steal, though
They want for nothing;
And the bodies pass over them just as plum as can be,
Never once pondering that soon even they too will be less than
These things.