Worship

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It’s as if the spirit,
Pale green and new,

Brushed our realm
For the briefest instant,

Igniting the cool magnitude
Wrapped in guts of plants

So all are suddenly aware
And blinking and charged

And rolling on in lattices
And internal xylem flows,

Abandoned to their task
To raise the sexual forms

Of flowers in to the high air,
Burgeoning with all the winged

Busyness and assistance
Brought by the sun’s worship.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

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