Not until the moon

breaks, never until the wars
when they come with a sword for
the bees, when they come with a sieve
to the lake, and throw the fish

smothering high up on shore,
never until

the green field ripples with the
reapers carrying their nightmare
axe to the trunk of this oak

will I let you go.
Then the acorns fall around us, hard
dull bells.