Besides the morning, laying beside
carved within you a grand mouth
of the mourning speaking-Sun
beams brilliantly singing
how she prepared this day;
(sentiments are nice)
“The dead, but loved,”
are sputtering in the fields
as fireflies, the sunlit-bowl!
i could only reply, “to speak
of that age of skyfilled Sprites
and when fog was dragon’s breath!”
And are the rivers still bleeding?
Last fall’s snow still remains
as so many things within the air,
still; wishes, dreams, kisses,
and entirely collapsed spirits.
:: 07-27-2015 ::