Laying this head
upon a hillside...
whose nurture
was numberless
bosoms.
How green the
liberties of innocence...
lost in termless growth.
Of whose Age of Joy
could never be qualified.
The yonder yellow of
networking dandelions,
setting sunny precedents.
As raring turtle doves
echo winds that have
already changed.
This season of werewithal,
for the reciprocation
of benediction.