Response to Spenser (2.15.06)
Mole-mounds; bird-song,
Emplanted trees in my eyeline converging.
The world is emptied of gods.
There are none left to bless this marriage bower;
None but the leaves above my head.
Dark green obliques, piercing proliferation.
The world is godless, yet not decreated,
genial sprites of wood and garden banished
by the all-transcendent Word.
| After this, I'm not really sure where to go; the following lines are merely scraps of suggestion. |
Out of the ashes of morning,
there comes a comfort in waiting -
borne down to essence
in the spring's first chill breath.
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