[working title]

The strength of which we are a part
of crocuses in spring,
The iron taste of well water
will through this trifle sing.
And all of which we are a part
and circling we fly
toward a water-carven rock
abed in fields of rye.

The mouth opens to welcome home
a minerally grit
to rinse away all childish lies
that harm the root
and sit
amid the lilies, soft and white,
that waver in the breeze,
pulling from that strength
without which we
are less than . . .

And so, tradition spurned,
and all our gathering is done,
amid those fields of rye
we stay
to sing and be undone.