Wall

It is a sound that comes through a child
A child of the earth from a climbed wall,
By a tree of leaves plucked into pockets
For worship of a stone god in vermilion
And yellow softness of a beginning god.
It is god nestled in a heap of yellow rice.
It is my women of rustling silks of the air,
A fragrance of worship flowers and flame.
It is the flame that dies in floral fragrance
But re-lives to verify my continued living.

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