There was a cycle amid the alabaster oaks,

Wide rings like halos drawn in the skulls—

I meant snows—

Drifting through the glade on doe’s feet,

Getting stuck between squirrels’ toes.

This was the cycle that ran its course

Like an energy vein seamless threading in and out,

Multiplying the framework and making new stitching.

The old became the new; an Egyptian used the oaks to make a vase for his king,

Which filled with dust, which was lightless,

And settled to the ground.

Around, around the cycle flew,

curmudgeonly growings, little timid happenings,

Whispers of rabbits’ tongues and stowed corn that someone forgot

Got unburied when the skulls started to melt.