Of These

oaths we've made,
candles that we've lit
with sluggish yellow flames;

these final, failing blood rays
saturating the roadside
impossibly disappear.

We are fond of grief,
sweet, burning sage
its delicate smoke

the tender metaphors
of cloud and soul
that leave our myths


These miracles
of leaf and bird,
the steady, voiceless tree

have no need,
restraint or dream,
nor fear of suffering.

How much earth
around our roots,
how many silent moons-

that mystical stone
of heartbreak
will it take

to free us?