Our inheritance, an emptiness
In our hands that thinks her sweet oil
Squeezed by a seasons forthcomingness.
The seasons themselves… the thought that all
Of them are her leaves will leave us better
Fools, squeezing in drier fields till naked
We could see her. And, then, do we take her?
Do we try again, as unintended?
Oh that the ground, laden with leaves after
our stay, can breath prayer over laughter!