Chrisma (from Trias I.)

Our heads will bow to
Willow in the sun’s fair light
While this earth reaches

For soil on our musty tongues,
The spring to pierce our low plains.

Lay these long cloaks down
To dance among the lumbering
Beasts, the foaling mares,

Moaning softly, hosannas
Praising, though our breath comes quick,

Whispered in prayer, rough
Incantations over hands
Sticky with leaven.

As our long arms sway, blessing,
Near the river’s restless shelf,

They scatter a word
On wind-song, the sweet promised
Root, our bread and kin-

Ship rising from the tumble
Pregnant with a covenant.

Vessels made of clay
That seethe and ferment, stretch and
Overflow with us

Who groan in fleshly tangle
Of poetry, the plucked string,

On the threshing floor
While lovers kiss or tickle
In straw and pale light,

And riotous reflection
of moon in our wooden cup.

© 2017, Karekin M Yarian, BSG