Cathedral

In woods near the trail, sunk
in leaf-litter, a cage of ribs

lichen-scabbed and gangrene-yellow.
On my stringer hangs a throat cut trout,

its sepia skin liver-spotted.
I’m worn out, leaning against a cedar,

thinking of a fried trout supper
when from the jail of bones

groundfog delivers the pale waif
of a lily. Bent by the weight of rain

it tips spilling earth’s living water.
What in me is parched and bitter

is a disgrace. Soaked to the skin, I hike on,
dread quenched by a flower,

its face death-pale. For a drenched hour
blessed, I forget the planet is burning.