I used to lay upon the Leaves
Infused with blood and ink and Eves
Where Ash and Water left a Trail –
A thread, I sewed – and named A Tale
And there I hummed and spun the Bone
With shelves of stone and signs unknown
And mine were carved by songs of Yore
With hands and eyes atop the Morn
Perhaps we sang, my signs and I
Perhaps we danced, my Leaves and I
But that was Then – when songs were sung
The Snow is here, where none is rung
And Here is dim, and grey and mute
The wind is still, no voice or flute
Perhaps 'tis true – no bow nor string
No thread immune – He cannot sing
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
I used to lay upon the Leaves
Infused with blood and ink and Eves
Where Ash and Water left a Trail –
A thread, I sewed – and named A Tale
And there I hummed and spun the Bone
With shelves of stone and signs unknown
And mine were carved by songs of Yore
With hands and eyes atop the Morn
Perhaps we sang, my signs and I
Perhaps we danced, my Leaves and I
But that was Then – when songs were sung
The Snow is here, where none is rung
And Here is dim, and grey and mute
The wind is still, no voice or flute
Perhaps 'tis true – no bow nor string
No thread immune – He cannot sing
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