The lassitude, the stretch of muscles, tendons, fibers
over a perfect rock heating evenly in the sun
with only a branch in springs flower to shade the eyes...
but what flower, and what eyes!
He is the cloven one, the artist of green, enraptured in his creation.
Leaves, verdant, green, pulsing with sap,
At night, he will raise the thyrsus and slam it home to the earth as the women braid their hair.
The beasts shall greet them dutiously and offer forth their blood and flesh for the sacrifice...
thick, heady smoke and burnt umber,
under velvet night skies and sequined stars, the women dance barefoot in circle, enraptured across woven tapestries...
I've got to finish this one some time...
