To wake again like dew upon the blades
of the green meadow, like a gust of wind
pushing the clouds above the forest glades,
at last free from desire, no longer pinned
to gristle, sinews and a skeleton.
To wake again, the water underwing
blue grey until the morning shore and sun,
the crowns of elms and oaks now wavering,
the pearly gate inhuman and aglow
upon the mossy hill, the crystal forms
embracing April rain, the drainage flow
flushing flotsam in the wake of storms.