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Glad is she can shun life’s godless guides,
Can keep from easy, barren tracks,
Can stand apart the cynic crowd:

Dares seek instead that Other’s tumbling, streamly deeps,
Relentless and attentive, loyally surrendered.

As Dryad, brook-banked, reaching up t’ward heav’n,
Appling autumn’s harvest, leafing spring’s wet green,
Fresh-scenting flabby rot and ash. In season. Out of season.


This loathing, they still bare up souls and faces
To the fiery sandstorm sun.

Too late, stiff boughs, awaked by flame,
Curse heav’nly rain’s return. As sandy tracks
Slide sickened, sinking, south.


Each pilgrim’s path is eyed by One
Whose tears, where bid, will fruit the driest skin:
Yet, shunned, cracked cheeks blow ceaseless, incomplete.