Woven

will has woven blades of grass
and white aloft in astral fields
what surrender has puddled
from shattered slicing notions

the woven lines once
stood in distant island groves
where within boyhood ponders
lurked among the misty morns

yet rises sol in solar planes
and morns weep for death of night
in dewy tears that ascend
to white aloft in astral fields

those standing lines bowed
for surrender of soul to scythe
the cutting blade releasing
time stored in youthful fears

and rooted lines laid low
to gather for life's bundled shock
in rootless pursuits of the
now fruitless distant island groves

woven what will has tailored to
pooling surrender from a vein or few
the past portions gobbled up from view
what could have been ensues