Winter Litany

Holy Holy Holy
Holy the weaving withered golden hands,
ten thousand leaves arched here above me.
Golden fingers reaching
inspite of raging winds over the dead grass.

Holy Holy Holy
Holy the tight elastic
cutting, every second carving
into my skin the reminder that
I am human and must needs sleep.

Holy Holy Holy
Holy the thorny honey locust tree
Bare branches reaching like a many veined artery
into the warmth of my father's heart.

Holy Holy Holy the moon hidden
from the cold in november clouds and rain.

Holy Holy Holy is the fallen ash
fanned to embers by winds howling holy.

Holy is my fat self running to time my last puff
with the top of the hill
and slash's eternal guitar riff.

Holy is this night
Holy is the amber glow
Holy my thumb, with its 20 year old scar
Holy the dew on this glistening black tar.