Printemps

do you hear?

the sound of old alters crumbling

is like the cracking of ice

in a spring thaw

the whispered prayers

from yesterday

have already faded from mine ears

they are now only

the breeze, and mute

the icons of history have fallen

from their lofty reaches

and lie scattered in pieces over the ground

we grind them to dust under our feet

we dance over them

we braid early flowers into our hair
and smile for the worship of things genuinely pure