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Waiting Inside The Stone

My will is waiting inside the stone beside the well
For someone to read me sacrament, testament of last rites,
There is a woman I know she lives in a book
When she reads me, she sees all the fine print
Smoke signals, crows feet, fire sticks bellwethers
Gathers the pale weavers into church forest pews
Service is paid in breath come due be said, relent
So still sometimes her wandering wand casting a spell
A rent spent to ripple reflection curves into an out
Late last year, make a calendar, mark the note
File of passion, compensation is assured and signed
Beside the well, inside the stone my will is waiting

Poetry by Chaucer Whethers