To dream is to waken inside a world
fully is is filled and all fruits it bears
so Pomona with a basket in her arms
plentiful as moss is a whole forest
suffices to answering her whispers
gathering new strength she reaches forward
and loosening the footsteps of a word
breaks from meaning the bitterest question
I am alone in the harvest of hours,
where have all my people gone to wander?
blossoms and tendrils hope springs forever
skipping and leaping back from the descent
to expanding darkness, bipedal, bent,
and gives of its soil its firmament.