Brim still tipped

to the never yets divider breeze

                         Still turning rightfull woods

                         to their cycled rule

                         he looks up from his timbered skies

Carried full term

in the roo smocked womb

chance is born to me

                         To be this human

                         To be this given

                         For the simplest nod

                         To any thread of any way

Palmed so sweetly

by the dedication of our dead ago pavers

The baton is in my hands

and I am running with drift beauty

                         With them all

───

Words