before
and still
the truth becomes
another way I knew –
counted by the blossoms
I was seed
longer held
the coming back
for one more dream (or two)
paths have worn
as now my lonely bones

in memory
recall the cool
of places I knew better
the grace of summer storms
and winter rye
where bliss was only starting
weaved the vines
as one –
lines the same as leaves
across my hands

of ancients
they are stilled
beyond the purple crest
tho deep within her breast
the braver sleep
lives were come
and love endured –
or so they say
in leaving
burning back a flame
I dare not quench

starry nights
are all I know
of what remains forever –
threads are worn
tho not beyond repair
whispers cling
to autumn weeds
with will
for one more harvest

one more path
becoming –
long the ways
to home

. . .