Morning Stalks

Nurtured into a budding bloom My hands are busy, they start and soon Shake with blue; white; doves intone Bones, body brown with eyes that drone Like tiny gashes sewn up by hand Tempered temper: fueled and fanned Dripping dew from simple soil Bead and bend, like drops of oil Slick, smooth and shadowed still, Rush the ground like boulders fill Forgotten craters; satyrs; round and then Devil’s whittled son, left wooden red.