Cinques ringing eleven bells,
in five pairs, the sparse mid tenor,
in what I’ve read in conte requiem,
of sparge of sprinkling water,
restoring the crust of bread,
beneath thorns of heavens crown,
the chime of life begins.
Christmas sound by sustain,
it’s choral through the chaff,
in lautering the spelt of grain,
vorlauf practices of holy trinity,
the harvest thresholds, anno domini,
joy beyond the emperor’s sorrow,
the heart’s soft abbot,
the braver daughters of satellites,
and the virgin silverside, her star.
Gone is the tree whose other ties,
where manhandled,
wind taken is the sawdust,
of four purple birches,
my friends by waves of greeting,
in the matter of my course.
There is a why, I’m asking,
the less in my heartbeat,
how so I impassioned,
the ways in marking,
your graceful intercepts,
through the skies of varying years,
the gentle mean in my path home.
I may be single preserve,
missing you by memory,
but I keep in blue photograph,
and I place my tear,
beside your yesteryear of glory.
