Saturday, 23 January 2016


How would the tree atop the church
both stretch and live as one-
The wings of wood to call us death
take bulb upon the sun?

Petals, every one
to beat the fronds into an ice,
Where dance we may, a petal each
our moments into day?

To arm ourselves upon the grass,
to sprout into a wood--
In nova fert animus
the shapes end day as should.

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