To please my dying sister
that morning in spring,
wind sang through the grass.
We moved a turtle off the road,
lifted it by its glossy shell.
We could not stop the sun.

In the forest,
in the mountains,
birds sing Matins.
The trees fill up
with water and wind.

On the Sabbath Islands,
a drowning wind.
To catch old gods you must
sing among the holy stones.

We had light,
a bottle of wine, and bread.
The sun spun through wind;
we sang the rain
under a shell of stone.
A thousand years,
ten thousand storms.



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