May

We speak of all the holy burning oils
We speak just like the daughters of the soil
Who dress themselves in pretty queen anne’s lace
And smear all of the red dirt on their faces
And we’re wandering like all the souls at large
Reluctantly agreeing to take charge
And stake our claim on tiny bits of land
To hold the simple glory in our hands
And all the bull finches and all the meadow thrushes
Shall spread their slender wings like the bristles of the brushes
And the elevated symphony of all the insect choruses
Shall call out our names as they desperately implore us
And our eyes see even through the gloom
The rows and rows of shallow graves and tombs
Of all of the ancient and the old
Of all the saints who let their spirits go
And we stand quiet above the braes and vales
Our eyes take in the morning in all her minor details
Oh! I want to walk with you!