Before a Resurrection
These are last hours before last hours,
and the flowers, earthen syntax between
sign and sign, between your life and mine,
bound in silence to the ground at night,
where I wait, not knowing which words
to say as proof that to rise and worship is right.
We are to imagine the wren awake
at night between birch and fern,
the sun-vacant scenes of green bleak
like homes that will never be. And it
rises from some damp slate of earth,
glad without us, to be rehomed by flight,
the sight a sign to us that stand below
in a brittle pass of moor and bone,
the secret chance in us all, that
which future we have we do not know.
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