no memorials

Harvey S. Mozolak

a seed awakening
in a moist pot
does not remember
the field full of its flowers
and fruit from which it was plucked
and sacked
but only now the sun’s angle
to which it must lean
its sprouting head
unthinking of past seasons
but only surging hope dark buried
unseen but furrowed

song of the Spirit

Harvey S. Mozolak

when the dove
sings of heaven
nesting on earth
hear the holiness
angels understand
near in lullabies
as night-piercing gloriae
with a cup containing
garden-groaned tears
and a solid stone
setting for death
split open in descant for life

dove sounds

Harvey S. Mozolak

winged word called from silence
beaked breast blood from bound wood
song of the tree freeing from the deformation of all
noted as one
anew anew anew