Look. They are putting
Garlands on the sin tree.
The maypole dancers move
In a circular time,
Trailing their ribbons.
The pile is erect in three dimensions.
The uncut cord trails into time dimly
Beyond memory.
Look. There is the grove
We once cut down.
There is singing among the trees
And a flapping of wings.
There they are,
Huddled in a mist of rain.
A lot of little gods
Huddle at their feet.
