is an all-consuming process
And life subtracts the moment it proceeds
The leaves are wakeful of the wind
And roots too mind the earth embraced.
What feeds the sleepy mountain but
The lethargy of the soul
And when with blood the hair is soaked
The waves will howl at muddied sky.
Yet there is beauty in the
That has to grow on the skin
When market voices spell out
The realities of the twigs:
Wet with dew in the morning's wake
And dried as amber when the sun peaks.
And there is beauty in the
Uncertainties of the night,
The mystery enthralls as the warmth
Of the flesh unfolding behind
The silken cloth when shadows quiet
Murmurs of the wounded soul.