who can speak to the strum of yellow
dirt but river-thirst?
every turn of heaven-stroll knows the
cost of beginnings
and yet it browns the word-wisp, the
heart-thorn &
the torn-lisp – we speak to this strum,
this distant
yellow, this breaden stream striven to
breach the word –
Gathering just-a-bit-o moss 
Breaden. Had to look that one up.
🙂
Superb poem. Too densely airy to say.
🙂 Thanks.