Crystal

Crash of clamours in the spindly branches
And then all is still-- No:
The rustle, hear it?
Murmur of whispers in a brook of leaves,
An undulating speckled serpent along
The granite broken margins.

But what was the word?-- Oh
Hear it, hear it still! Shall I lie
Me down and clod my eyes o'er
With the tearfall of broken leaves
All o'er me

And rest-- the musted sleep of
Rot, lulled in the harmony of
Dirt, plainsong fortnights, till the
Frostspring dawn me Crystal, born
Unbroken, glitter-hard form of
Proof? The Me undeniable
And undenied.

But doubt pulsed within, beacon-like
And awhile I paced the border, here
And there, till the vexation of
Form and Substance unbound from
Me like a discouraged scarf.

I shunted from the grove, a furtive
Thing, and slunk me back
Into the waver of shadows
Where I could stare appalled
Into the articulate mug
Of a stranger's brisk approving
Consolations.