Across the glens
And through the trees
In Monarch antlers
Pollen breeze
We’d meet with love
And remedies.
A stagnant pond,
A ferrous stream,
By dreaming frogs who
Spoke in croaks of
Folklore and their journeys,
They woke a whisper of moths
Under mossy lichen-logs
Where we sat, held hands
And fell asleep in folds
Of wisdom and each other’s
Loss as if in blankets or ferns.
No one else could understand,
There’s no one quite like
You and me, for compassion’s
Company, not a single queen
Or king or woman or man,
Across the glens
And burning land.