Come Come humble in, come shining in in to its coppice wood. Come slow . . . by sapling to its silver-dark keep. Hear the wizened monarch grate -- stray and chafe of its own and immense time -- a tune to the wind. Hard by its umber hold the airs, rich in thistledown toss thick in silk the balm to ease the sun-burned light copper glow in the gilded night of leaf by edge on edge. Knurling buttresses gird its bole flying wide beneath the woods -- the coppice woods plucked shoot by stem of kindling-lay and fired a time away. Come Come lying in hush and bear witness -- hear the ragged monarch sign . . . silver-maned and tanned in tides of acid sands.