[Suzerain of Sheol]

Among the Dying Dogwoods

Alone with a winter storm, she stands
on the last, crownless hill,
all wilting samite, feet curled like withering roots,
our precious wife of God.

In her gaze, the stars reflected,
brazen idols burning in the holocaust of time,
molting death given wings of fire,
incinerating hope in the emptying sky.

And the tempest comes, shrieking havoc,
ripping at her lovely gown,
devouring her breath, consuming every cry
of that crippled voice.

Hear the words, of her prayer,
her singular prayer,
echoed from every child's mouth,
a petal's plunge into a crashing tide.

And she falls, our dearest,
our darling bloom, she falls,
there upon that hill, kneeling on the bones,
at last the victim of the wind.