Juneriot

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