Another one

The ground is alive, and full of call
for the knees embrace, the flowering eyes.
Ineffable, as the earth-thrilling root,
or the time-spilling river,
it tills the purple-plumed evenings,
where the glancing of wind's soft face,
turns silence into shudders
at what was lost, lungly.

Receding shadows,
the rock-strewn marshes.
Green plaited pathways on which
harried footsteps turn, discern, the breadth
of life, the contemptuous
sole, inexhaustible crest. That awaits,
past the Coventried cries,
or the plainness of the autonomy
of solitude pain,
storing truths like a lie,
for winters that never come.