Glory’s voice, utterer, potter’s wheel clay culled of Crone Moon and Milky Way,
Starchild, do not seek tenders and hope amongst the colors of your visioned sight,
The heart who claims love yet, holds the darkness as for you a guiding light,
Captive, craven you shall become, as the raven is to the black he sought for envy,
Feed them not with green pools, copper lamp pupil gated souls. sweet glance or glare,
For turning away will their mechanism be, to fantasy, id and ego plated, awaited,
Delicious dishes mirrored selves, both snails and eggs and puppy dog tails,
Go out instead and dress the trees in this your lorn laced ruffled sleeves,
Arm fulls embrace, curtsy the leaves, kissing bark veins, cheeking mossy tellings,
Drawn water as if sapling springs from mountain thaws, awakening warmth in their further fruits,
Not yet even a bud of thought in a twig’s lonesome dreams, when Autumn sings,
There will be found the seeds, the husk for Earth and Star’s child to circle round,
Rhyme past thyme sleeping lazy in the summer sun swinging on the ripened vine,
Hop the creek, toes to minnows cool waters, and algae slimes as tadpoles divine time there,
Now lives for the beauty the children feel in their close and most precious Host,
The Voices of our souls can not express lest we sing the cellular Nature songs,
When we were and Who we are while dancing to Where shall we go next my friend ?
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