The measured blood beats out the year's delay.
The tearless eyes and heart, forbidden grief,
Watch, the burned, restless, but abiding leaf,
The brighter branches arming the bright day.
The cone, the curving fruit should fall away,
The vine stem crumble, ripe grain knows its sheaf.
Bonded to time, fires should have done, be brief,
But, serfs to sleep, they glitter and they stay.
Because not last nor first, grief in its prime
Wakes in the day, and hears of life's intent.
Sorrow would break the seal stamped over time
And set the baskets where the bough is bent.
Full season's come, yet filled trees keep the sky
And never scent the ground where they must lie.