in summer –

these the broken boughs of your ancient trees

are nuanced and rough -- we divide

our time between Nature and the Word

only to arrive at instances of sudden

remonstrance -- She

will shelter you there in her arms

as she falls to accounting

for all your hopes -- she is keen

with words sprung fully from her brow

like so many wayward children -- in

her instep is a rhythmical

grace

unmarked by acute intention -- Will you

structure your survival in her smile?

(How long can you remit

your Sins?) -- bats

accumulate in the air, brushing

past us -- fireflies post

their measured pulsings

in the dusk -- cicadas

churn mating songs and we desist

before our yawning birth --

*