Teeming with purities,
our forestry illumined by the try,
and puritan glass
that nestles in our leaves,
profusely bleeding Light
like the Kingdoms are real,
and the crunch of the powders,
the icicle’s sand, that is the sound
that is issued from under each foot
of the placeless spirit, traveller
who carves a wooden path
through our frost-bound canopies
and leaves us
to be loosened by the Wind,
unvaulted and opened,
the creatures of twilight to come
and ravage our bodies,
suck from our ancient bones
the sap of infidelities,
unleash from the record of tree rings
stored in our make
the flourishing grace we were,
before winter, she blinded our eyes
to the flaming accord of our surreal destiny.
01/01/2017
Richmond