vernal equinox

mine was the unholy office, held aloft

by will which in the morning rose green

but withered dry and grey

then slumped exhausted on its

dying day

now in the wake of

new branches

seeking

a grove

the unobstructed sky provides a vast bed

sprawling edgeless

circular,

a chunk of pine amber to warm the palm.

a chunk of pine amber:

charged with a merciful

warm electrical crackle

making itself an open vessel

for any breed of grief

once fragmented, i was

a crumbling sandstone city

contaminated byre

funeral pyre

seeing nothing but end

after death after end

cold, without clothes

sought a grove and found a wasteland

sought a doe although

the doe who does not run is dead

but nevermore a hunter will be led within the grove

unless it is as legend long has said:

the traitor will be buried alive,

within the oak's cleft:

a crack exposed only wide enough

to keep him drunk with death

a bolt of lightning illuminates

that all that is new

is all that is left

and that was a seductive look,

young:

cast off that sullen disposition, you are

young

and if you ever step over my weeds

to beseech

an open vessel, free of lead and

free of grief

you will find my body placid, murky

green

shimmering, stirring

nearly imperceptibly, a young thing

spring begins to bend and flow