Sky will never wean us
nor suns wane
nor tombs keep
nor our shagged selves
shout themselves
in language of your screech.
In the long talk of slake
of rain come down rain […]
[…]
Big medicine came small
as the blossom I did not see
staggered in the February blast
of the grey cherry tree
until my friend lightly
so lightly brought it home to me […]
So I sat me down in my pew again, and cried bitterly. Margaret Fell. 1694
When I sat down, the silence was already rising, a river of quick fire. […]
