For what should not
Like the greens in Spring
Vines creeping
Up the sides of your leg
Moss involved in lineage.
Memory was lost
With blue-black baskets
That bobbed unevenly
About hands of ancient grain
Settling into the hallows.
And River flowed
With anonymous voices
That reached the trees
And clouds, boulders, and lichen,
And touched the lips
Of each those lost.
This is the spark that sets seed
A jubilant setting free
A sunset beyond every sea
With a new day the grain that grows.
And if each sign these clouds do point
Expose a pasture fit for rose
Should a foot that heals the earth
Lay thin dust that bitter burns?
Nay, each dusk a seat be found
To hold each glass, a little worn
A ritual many should be warmed
At last, sweet moon, a gray cocoon.
For goodness – not –
Shall Lords divine.
Sweet melon nectar
Explicit: intertwine.
An eagle soars
With lengthy hearth
An eagle burns
As Pharaoh’s earth.
River’s dry
– A cracking grain –
To whither: dead,
Our fathers bane.
Of golden green
‘Twixt slender pains
Yell “Willow’s mixture”
Betrayal’s feign.
Yet heard – unspoke –
Gripped the sword
– A childless yoke –
Divine hoard.
Stumbling at first I run against the grain
Slowly tracking down the right person to blame
But alas, as it turns out
I am the only one in this cornerless room