On crimson mornings, layers of leaf loam lie
So deep they are an ocean of land.
A heart is imprisoned in the heart of a tree
And only fire can free it.
So, also, we wait.
It is a strange and holy day for weeping.
Pour in all you want, it will not dilute –
We invented resentment as much as
Fine bone china and a whirling starry sky
But if it came down to it you would eat my brain
And I yours.
The sky shakes out another eclipsing sunset, and laughs,
and infinitely, we wait.
A quiet pocket inside,
A room padded with patience,
A soft, receiving moss curved around a single stone.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.