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.