Rivering Spring
A droning time with its honeycombed eyes;
lives grown beyond their husks.
Bring green barges for the winching of the awakening,
portage willowy thrones to the wind thrummers,
gild each gap with a dewy wine.
Time to pull up the lady with the golden hair,
wash the water's with her amber and
blood-stones.
We have windows and behind them
volant dragons whisk goldenrods.
We have windows in ox-eye buds.
We see her serpentine hair swim
in the airy whim.
It is a droning time, a glut and glutch
on every glistening tongue.
It is a rivering.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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