In the Time of Hastening
In the time of hastening
all dread is loosed.
It is loosed upon the world
in torrents of salt.
Still, we be not seasoned
as the wood.
Too green, we shrink.
The oak must be polished,
the fine mahogany stained,
the walnut drawn out
like a slow summer.
Inward the rafters
belie promises of strength.
The hearth of fine wood
will not burn
among the ashes.
It is saved from desolation.
The body is broken
upon the ash.
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