Optimism

And through her eyes is seen
a newmudded slate;
The spatterings of binder thought.

If sheep were meant to follow,
one after one,
she hopes they could return in the same way.

The old passage in her rock of mind
sinks, oozingly, behind,
but it cannot submerge:
too encrusted with goldthought, too precious.

The trees rise out of silence/
the silence rises out of the trees, inside,
inside the worm circulation,
underlit, spoondusted and crowned.

Briared, it hangs,
a Christ of branches,
followed by flock:
one after one.