The longest day will drive a crack-- til Jubilate windows in.
Three parts that braid begin to fly-- that something singing
overlapping. White roses on the fire lit. The stick once put
begins to curl. A wheel is rolling sparks for ten. She feels
it here-- but far away. High golden hills remind the day of
St. Johnswort. One yellow cup upon each end. Asha found
three little bowls. The tones are gliding through the light.
Mountains can appear we wave-- and roll in dust and dark til
then. Because the small ones can not stop. We find a way to
circle so. We close into a fire pop. Open also leaves have
room. And grow with pushes following through. We sing to leap
the last of it. The nuts are gathered in a cup. The arc is
scent, the curve a boat. To row and row the blinding stream.
We hope to cast a shadow yet. A firm trail makes me follow up.
We turn and run descend upon. To beat a beat upon the rim. A
kiss in light before a name. The same few rise. Until she
flew. The angel woke to be a bird. And never once the same
again. The turquoise chamber turning parts. Lemon mint upon
the flame. Old treasure sack. The tones do chime. And nut
hats six can climb sky high. We wave wheel around the bend.
Though amber changed the wending way. Sinking deep in Lion's
mane. Go round she say to sign your flame. Seven stars are
shining bright. The round is fine. Just out of sight. We see
it dry to golden sheets. Though wet was once all flick and
stain. Today will not remain again. Go round she say go
round to me. And let the lifting bird come through. The
gate is raised the sun can too. Go round go round. Today
is different not the same. A new a new. Goodbye in waves
for sinking down. Often time to
say. Once more again. So ashes breathe-- Around me now.
is living and writing in the Berkshires. She has recently completed
a book of nonfiction, and
The Angel of the Equestrians,
recent writings. Her books include the recent My
from The Figures, and
from Christopher's Books. She co-edited the groundbreaking anthology of women's poetry,