She sings to the worms in transit
between the orchard
and the ghost hurtling glacier,
the ta sa la of the stone dead,
but in passage
over a sack of coal
and the basket of seed potatoes.
It is the messenger bee, at last,
carrying a green and copper scroll
with the legitimate characters
of naked apostasy
written there in red and yellow pollen;
stone dead in the branches, the apples
have gone the beggar red
of a pomegranate.
Deer are grazing on the limestone ledges.
This is the cipher of everyone leaving us.
Not just with a fresh loneliness
but with those eyes of potatoes
for the only witnesses.