Outside Cellar

Outside Cellar


An apple thee faleth from thy tree

Doesn’t it make you any wonder

How blessings form bees around these,

Truest in the forms of elder berries

That reach for the growing kind of budding,

From the hills that reach my skys

That roll and form the rye,

That barley well mostly thin in

Pastures that we crawl back in,

Take the moose to whistles and driven cooth

By all the kings men we ride awake in the night,

From our heavens we leave our torches that checkered may dim

To the end’s of this Earth we. no one. Left in.