Floor of April Mould

Another “automatic writing” poem from about 10 years ago.

(illustration, detail from “whisper” by Aria Nadii)

all those who take hold
glimmer and go forth
thrill with a touch
tribes of the field
dim green water-fire
floor of April mould

And her cloud
beauty of gold joy
thrills of a new drift
under the brooks
colors the tribes
of the hills
of birds and brooks
come

polar tides glimmer
and currents buoy
spread of the earth
sheering down
to touch the frost
maple seed
thy purpose is down
in and of the ground

and the unquenchable joy
they perish of joy
beneath the eaves of night
the spread rises
the marsh profound
we are no more
we
in dim green water-fire are lost

thy will melting
wind of the very winds
disperse
a germ in the gloom

we are thee
the never still sea

still the joy
dreams the glad earth-children
the earth takes form
on a tissue of butterfly