surrendered like falling rain,
and generously offered to all creation.
She was already root.
within the gilded empires of language.
Holy, Holy, Lord of Hosts
The swan-bright cross of crosses--
We say they suffer us
But is it not the work
paint an alluring destiny
I and those like me too amphibious
And with the cascading years
Inviolate as evening light,
copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011