so we'll listen to what they say.
The coyote bushes waving "hello"
want us to share their joy.
The dialogue of wind and leaves,
one first then rustling other,
wonders what to do about us...
As the crone who was never forgiven
whispers curses through the aethers.
Such consequence, such conscience,
such clinging to an empty past.
The wind and all its choral voices
try to tell us how instantly
we're forgiven
But the men below, stretching, Godless
will never be,
They look at the dead woods as a lost cause
not even what might have been
For the same decisions would be made again,
the same auroral chasing,
See there is nothing in this world as sweet
as what is stolen by the unworthy.
