Grove

Grove

Buff your spirit bright as lemons.

Arrange the lichens, shells,

the tiny bones.

Let the multitudes a-crawl

in this withering grass

be your small Christs.

Praise their silence.

Kneel down.

Above you, the unkempt branches

shelter starlings in their tangles.

Higher still,

seven  crows

stroke the heavy silver light.

Be secretive, shadowed,

                                                                    your sisters have burned for less.