To make a sound,

to make a body from these ashes,

from these crimson hands

in this vale recessed. 

How much courage rous'd,

how many years?

Give me more. 

Give me grace. 

I will not resist your psalms. 

These linens were made to linger 

through tears and blossoms 

and everything poetry leaves behind. 

From what distant hills, 

from what morning dew,

do you visit? 

Decorate me with light.

Adorn me

again tomorrow, o delicate beauty! 

Where can we kneel? 

These pews are not clean.

My darling, prayer is only ritual.

Welcome to the dawn.

Nothing will make sense at first.

Kiss me, my lilac-tongued whimsy! 

All things human

will thrive in nature,

will find a way to bloom again.

My wispy summer tendril,

my spirit, breathe calmly. 

My solstice, my solace, my emerald-crested beauty.