Refracted through this matrix of fractured stops of clocks –
That brazen rumination of spent hours –
Years in hock to antecedence –
It tills in distinct measures –
A tilt from North to South and again, again in centripetal spin –
It is that harvested intensity spilled out also into the wholeness of silence.
And in its breach it cleaves life and death apart,
So that its differing attentions fill a gap in parenthesis.
And these waves of light through time trigger mind in the heart,
And rooted, there abide the twin apotheoses:
The requiem and hymn – shivers in the meristem –
And sliced, its moon-shaped leaves cling to the dome –
An issuance of thorns and spines, tendrils,
And starlight gripping greens.
It is thus that form is integral to ash,
And just like its prerequisite states;
Such form yields a cellular tabernacle of growing pains,
One of halted spears, diverted from a pinioning of wood.