unity to be divined

the trees – more than gothic scenes
of nakedness in that copse on the hill –
have spilled the beans on what [exactly]
it is, the all. Their twisting branches bare
can now reveal a fabric – a weaving woof –
a timourous tremoring, a thousand
filaments together in a skein
that in our more clement days
goes all but unseen –
better than buried [and berried]
beneath polyphonic voices of green
and yea, I feel the blood of prophets
in my veins wanting to proclaim
All is One to any who will
slip their chains
risk the unhitched night –
allow themselves
that unabstracted human right –
unfettered flight





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