Comments about Mary Naylor
In its vast blue vault, the golden cup spills
over Earth's parched brow, unto its fevered, furrowed hills,
a clear ethereal wine, hot and pure, that mingles
with quietly devout, gaunt, prickly fingers,
humble supplicants cupping a rosary of sand.
In the darkness of their being
they silently gather silvery beads
that spill over like precious mead.