fresh flowers of morn,
I mourn the mist into which
your serene rapture runs,
and choir's queen of the soft song fierce,
rampant after thy long robe I run,
knowing now I must needs seek
thy traces where('er) the trail or train leads.
There where dust of shards spark glimmer,
fade-reflect, I'll gather your shattered
pieces as one, with sand in the hands
mark time and toil, teach me
shimmer that once marked your footpaths
so high and holy. Beloved, may your beauty
with grace begrace me.