I toiled towards your birthing.  I nursed and foddered, purged and watered - overflowing your cup with Adam's ale - moulding that placenta of earth into a near perfect womb for your nativity - erupting joy at your crowning, pleasure at the fissure of soil through which you breeched in viridescent glory.  I stood by as you stretched for sunlight, coiled arms grasping at light and drops of gold to paint your face.  I tended you and fostered you and you continued to climb and reach and build your stairway to heaven.

But sky has closed.  Sun has lapped the last tear of your fortune.  And you wait.  And I wait.  And death pulls against all you've built - cancer of light, this heaviness that makes me drip and makes you droop.

We wave our branches.  We wave our arms.  We pray for rain.  We dance - feet dusty where there is no water - earth cracked and angry.  We dance - prayer on parchness for new moons to bring new rain.  We dance - this rhythm song to break the rock and cast a spring, bringing back the ways of May.