Snow-white blood runs through
the branches to be activated
by the Sun's synthesea.
White Oaks in burn of bled-wood,
to turn to the Parapet blossom of infancy,
Peaking curious tops that summit the icy eaves;
ready to be born again after
heart of Mother lion sustains within-
through pregnant Winter grieve.
A Resurrection
from the dark of the forest,
embracing the holes in the thicket
there.
Banking on a show of images
peaking curious props of light
that summit the abyss of seasoned blight, showing through pierced darkness;
like nail holes of Death in reversal;
conqueror, Life.
The sign of the cross,
buds on its boughs,
outstretched to the sky.
Showing how the wind blows.
Limbs giving homage, to the Son,
the one, honorary blossom,
Holy a scent sion blessing, right on the nose.
He who would use it's kin's body in the way
of Universal Salvation.
They show, that they know.
He is the Tree of Life.
He is it's rose.
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