Easterly
Bouquets of eastern starlings, raving.
Reaching out, fledgling saving,
The garden sloth of heaven's hues
Living in a bath of saffron dews.
Darkend the plough that snails follow
With troughs behind it tumbling hollow;
And up the steepend crag it crowns,
Margined off by aphid sundowns.
Violent garden of solar grapes,
some day we will barrel your shapes,
And your gentle filligree reigns retake-
Still cold before the Heavens's gate.
After death, mother's wake,
Finds her hatchling in the lake,
In the mud its last breath take.
Let these sail-white bones
Forever sate
Mother earth's gentle wheat.
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