Quiver and dance, forest —
Clapping leaves and tinkling moisture.
Sun beams shouldering through autumn branches,
and colors warm like tightly woven threads.
The trudge of silver rings, leader, and a nervous, guilty heart.
Toes hold fast the sinking soil,
blue meets green and beg apology and longing.
These bodies, furnaces of worn, complex expectation and doubt –
draw near the silk and cotton.
A gentle ripple — snowflake voices, anxious lips, calloused hands, the singing sword.
Cover us, forest, and quiver and dance.
The Monk
