“Oh Father, how long must we wait?”

            The abbot had been on his knees for over an hour, and he could no longer feel his feet. The cold stone was now warm, and he felt the temple floor had blended with his flesh and they were one.

            “Have our prayers fallen on deaf ears? I know that to you Father, man’s years are but blinks to your fathomless ages. You have spread out the world on the tip of your finger, but have you grown blind to our tribulation? We are weary and our holy torch is growing cold, the flames are diminishing with each passing season. Our land is changing its shape, and new orders are sprouting up like weeds. Do you not care that your followers are dying off?”

cool, wet, black bough
shrieking in the winter wind
the window waits
chilled, frosty, like a beer

peeping through, three eyes anew
infant plans have yet to hatch
if there's blood upon the shell
let it seep through, renew

hibernating, vitalizing
not vibrating, not disguising
sitting still for all to see
the peeping eyes: one, two, three

and there they sit in reverie
trying to fathom what they see
the banshee screaming like a tree
delivered them, so lovingly