Joseph enters. A beetle weaves a shock of orange through early decay. Dogwood and wild rose rouse under beech and elm. A collective sigh waves the canopy above, dilating the distant blue. From his lips —a cry— Mother, Her thousand ears, Her thousand eyes, Her fragrance suffusing, opens the heavens upon Her son—pillar descending— held to Her chest, flat on his back in the seat of the Throne, in Her thousand branches adorning the long climb into the milky stars—legs gripping the murky underworld— hosts and hosts and hosts and hosts.