(no subject)

[greenstorm]

Give me this day my daily round
Of time measured in field and raindrop,
Of garden and greetings of bright-eyed companions of fur and feather.

Forgive the way my heart is swallowed up by the land
Separated from all you would have me be
Brightened and deepened beyond your ken

As you will one day forgive the land for swallowing my body.

And lead me not into the mire of your expectations
Correct clothing, correct language, correct tone, every muscle correct
I will never be correct. I can only fail. And so

Deliver me from your judgement, turn away if need be
Watch your clocks, make your rounds
With your own kind.

For thine is the society
And the power
In this brief interlude
Until we are dust.