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There is nothing pitiful in the weakness
of a bird,
or anything outrageous when it is
rarely heard:
a bird, too, has a falling down
from prime,
a stealth, a little sickness, and the digital
time.
The serpent coils around itself, the axle
of its truth;
the bluebell lifts its head to rain and curls
its colourless root.
What felony is here that suffers
damage must?
What but lack of grace's touch, and abandoned
human trust?
For these things must have run their course
as seen - despite the Sin;
for nature's voice is one of love, from Love
its origin.
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