Twenty

eighteen

         in the mo(u)rning

              my limbs

              s h u t
              my leaves
              c u t

              my stems

              h a s h            
              my roots

              a s h

              

          in the still wake,

               iotas

               of the

               moon's

               c h r o m e

               peals

               of the

               sun's

               h o m e
              

          in the engima of

               quietus comes

               blood of

               the bud

               & thud of

               the flood

      

                                                         but         

         the heaven and hell

                and earth are

                nothing than

                her spirit

                that hopes and

                fears and hides

                and s e e k s

        the shades and hues

               and colours of

               the vast welkin

               speaks to

               my soul

               that she's

               here

               all along