Feathery Voices

Shivering reeds are ember green, bronzing in new-world delight,

The virgin quiet has its garden picked, apple-heavy breezes thick,

Laurel sap quick, mixed with something brick-red,

To wait so pale, we abide by a flickering moon,

Awaiting a green-world, man-shaped still,

We don’t fit.

Slipping a simple summery spell, it shifts,

A wren made poppy-red for a marble chant,

Feathery voices yell.

The river swallows and swells,

Every gathering of sweet madness chained by a knell,

Winter suffering is akin to hell,

Every soul is made pure.

Blue-faced dawn breaks that bell

For all is all,

And all is well.