The Indigo

​When the straw is rotting, and strewn
To efface the road, the stones
Still bruise, the holes still shake
Your bones, glanders attack the roans,

And sinkholes are swallowing homes.
And twilight creeps across the border,
The sun creeps across the sky
And everyone feels ropy, out of order,

Until the sun will illuminate 
The lavender, the purple iris,
The letters carved on stone
That match the grain of the papyrus.

But when the mildew blights the indigo
Until the stems grow grey and dry,
The sun will shine a healing light,
A sword will hang across the sky