my soul is quiet in the sunlight
pouring through the silk screen of the
spiders' webs outside my window.
In the pure brightness of clear
No stain has touched this yet.
peace is found in the navel orange that is
rising in the autumn sky,
catching the quiver of the sycamore
leaves, hanging on the trees
by brown and drying threads
the sycamore leaf is fringed in gold,
a halo-ed, hallowed, holy leaf
her green now dappled with