Of Holy Indolence, the End of All Life

There is the plum tree snowing on the grass.
There is the road that leads up to the pass.
Now I will brightly think, and take my rest.
I will turn pink and sink into the West.

There is the bridge that spans the little creek.
There is the coffee mug I dropped last week.
I will give names to the marauding snail.
I will let spiders nest upon the mail.

There is a hymn within the thrush’s moan.
There is a worm that curled and died alone.
I will try not to be a thing that kills.
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.

There is a prophet curled below the rose.
There is the Devil with his hunting nose.
I will open my hands, and not ask why.
I will turn bright and sink into the sky.