Penitence

Thousands of dutiful crucifixes 

Speckle verdant carpet 

Which contours the swollen hills

At the valley’s edge

Like peridot cashmere quilts;  

Putting forth fruited body 

To be pressed into blood,

Collected per annum

Drunk beneath stoic branches 

Of old growth oak,

Standing vigilant and proud 

O’er fecund ground—

Ceaselessly pregnant

                                          heedfully raped  

           That the crimson Ichor might seep from the dirt 

        in luscious bogs where eager Bacchae commune to sip their fill —

      precious nectar slurrily dripping down blissful chins

      to water the corpses of sorrowful Mothers 

The winding road dances playfully with the dale

As the sun shows grace 

To violet patches of knotted vines

Strewn about like ribboned lace 

So too it shows grace to skin and heart