by Alex Streim

A bush of birds
A flushed nation of tiny blooms
 
Crushed blossoms
Voices from the churchyard peal
 
A bundle of hewn planks put down
In the same lush place
 
Black tarp’s mountainscape’s 
Pulsing at the edges
 
Hook of moonrise 
Quiet horns 
 
Daffodils bleating gold
At freshet grasses 
 
For who is as responsible for flowers
Names suffice
 
Hyacinth
The crust of ice shed
 
Roiling fire 
In the sepaltips
 
Speak   Throat
If Names suffice
 
Accompaniment of stamen-
Strings make susceptible to 
 
Fall into the yawning iris
Man mount the rising moon
 
Bloom noon 
I O Great Fermata
 
Of ice
Who speaks in choirs