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Poem	The wet dawn inks are doing their blue dissolve. On their blotter of fog the trees Seem a botanical drawing-- Memories growning, ring on ring, A series of weddings. Knowing neither abortions nor bitchery, Truer than women, They seed so effortlessly! Tasting the winds, that are footless, Waisting-deep in history-- Full of wings, otherworldliness. In this, they are Ledas. O mother of leaves and sweetness Who are these peitas? The shadows of ringdoves chanting, but easing nothing. note: 12 Ledas: Leda, the maiden who was raped by Zeus in the guise of a swan.
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