all the trees are hers
and the bees
and furs
not exactly hymns
but hers
all the skies are fine
and the beasts
with spurs
not exactly wings
flutters
oh
and the nights with stars
and the cold
shudders
precise and orderly
clutters
after quite some time
we'll be who
we were
and i will certainly
trust her
cuz when the time comes to die
when the time comes to die
we'll steal the truth in it
when the time comes to die
oh the dust and ... will rise
who will believe the truth in it?
all the trees are hers
tall and green
and worst
to pollinate the
cup butter
even apple trees
with reluctant
worms
can satisfy her needs
for sure
and the rhubarb burst
through the
dark rich
earth
makes the sweetest intermittent
purr
and what is fallow now
will come to
deserve
poetry's most
lovely words