page 66

unto the path,
i walk.

yonder the sun,
i stalk.

toddler the age,
this Fawn.

whose rays i watch,
play dawn.

no other time,
can i see.

lines of measure,
melody.

the light can i,
catch on?

arresting muze,
her Song.

upon the place,
She sang.

fail the light in,
this Fane.

lines of measure,
now gone.

never to be caught,
nor heard.

continue i,
along.

:::

we are all blades of grass,

whose sorrows we each carry

on our sleeve

in a monadic drop of dew;

we wait, all of us,

for Dawn

to expel our sorrows---

to abolish them

into the atmosphere of the ether;

to let our purified essence

makes us, again, stand faithfully

as a field of green feathers.

:::

there was two parishioners

who stood among the crowd.

no different than any other,

no more outstanding than the next.

there was music saturation

and hymn naturalization

and the followers' infatuation.

all beautiful, all in a day's Work.

but there was two parishioners

who stood among the crowd.

no different than any other,

no more outstanding than the next.

except appearing

on an indiscriminate cue,

there was raised four hands

in praise among the two...

on the not-so-indiscriminate

notes of Hal-Le-Lu-