In Paul Friedrich's Book Proto-indo-european Trees He

In Western Civilization, Our Elders Are Books.

All This New Stuff Goes On Top Turn It Over, Turn It Over Wait And Water Down From The Dark Bottom Turn It Inside Out Let It Spread Through Sift Down Even. Watch It Sprout. A Mind Like Compost.

Bearing In His Right Paw The Shovel That Digs To The Truth Beneath Appearances, Cut The Roots Of Useless Attachments, And Flings Damp Sand On The Fires Of Greed And War; His Left Paw In The Mudra Of Comradely Display - Indicating That All Creatures Have The Full Right To Live To Their Limits And That Deer, Rabbits, Chipmunks, Snakes, Dandelions, And Lizards All Grow In The Realm Of The Dharma.

Knowing Where And Who Are Intimately Linked.

Lay Down These Words Before Your Mind Like Rocks. Placed Solid, By Hands In Choice Of Place, Set Before The Body Of The Mind In Space And Time: Solidity Of Bark, Leaf, Or Wall Riprap Of Things: Cobble Of Milky Way. Straying Planets, These Poems, People, Lost Ponies With Dragging Saddles -- And Rocky Sure-foot Trails. The Worlds Like An Endless Four-dimensional Game Of Go. Ants And Pebbles In The Thin Loam, Each Rock A Word A Creek-washed Stone Granite: Ingrained With Torment Of Fire And Weight Crystal And Sediment Linked Hot All Change, In Thoughts, As Well As Things.