I savored that Sunday,
when I stood hunched over the bare bones of the world
and racked the ribs with rhythms and chimes
and sang songs in the rings of grass
that graced the traces of the doe through the day.
And I have seen the green of the pine tips
and the cold stares of broken bare branches
that scarce withstood the fiery bloodletting.
I could have throw myself off the shelf
of stone and into the overgrown vales
and everything pales in the tales I tell.