Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of
      the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,

In conversation the ashes of my experience are mixed with yours
Dust with dust woody remnants bits of pumice desiccated seeds
Turned together transformed from yours and mine to ours
Then mulched with moist bits of meaty and leafy now
To which the ashes cling