The Stick-Figured Spinster Amongst NightTime Mosses,
Old Men Worn Torn Lay EnTangled Cradled In The Roots,
Too Exhausted To Claw Out From The Obscure Damp Chill,
FingerNails Like Petals Scattered In The Deep,
Yet To Tempt The Empty In Spaces Where Eyes Once Blinked,
Clinking Like Familiar Keys For Grooves To Guide The Shakeing Hand,
Kerosene A Century AWay...
...
But With Wax And String,
Candle And Wick... And Then Sweat Can Be Wiped From The Worryed Brow,
Another Step AWay From That Cold Ringed Cellar Door,
To Associate That By A Foot's Measure To The World Beyond The Grave,
Inky Thresholds Pouring Like Windowless Tapestrys To Trap InTent,
Widows AWait For Their NeedleCraft To Tap ALong The Creaking Borders,
With A Ball Of Tilted Silk To UnRavel A Road InTo The Center...
...
Only To Reveal HedgeRows To The Mender,
Clippings Needed For Exits And Entrances,
Arches... Twists... Round-ABouts... Dead Ends... And Fountains...
...
Yes... Most Importantly... The Fountains,
For To Arrive At One Is To Seek The Next Wonder...
...
...
Be It To Open The Gate BeTwixt Loops,
Or To Shutter At The Thought Of Dry Mouthings...
...
...
Wrinkles In The Forest Floor.
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