The Missing Words

They hide, in deep forest's of great limbs and twigging's, of crotching's and dangling's of vine grafts and mingling's, where clumping's of berry's as white as the moon shines, are caught in sage sheets, where a sharp golden sickle sythes.

These words conjoin the earth with the air, the fire to water, that draw down the quire, spelling the prayer, that sing of the spirit...as quaffed with the glain from a cup of the dewr.

When they are done 'dewing', they dream as a child. They walk with the lord of all life in the wild, on paths of a garden that no man may find...save, he hold the key to the oaken shield, and know the signs of the secret things.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: The Emerald Forest, by arwensgrace