Barely troubled, these waters
utter the faintest verse
to an unseen host, who moves
so silent through billowing grass.
This contentment I find,
not in itself, perhaps,
but its distant reprisal;
so long are these shadows
that have led me here.
The wind on my face is somehow
nearer perfection,
and there, beyond those trees,
although I've not noticed,
the sun has gathered some moments
for itself, and is leaving us now,
with respect.
And at that point where all
is seemingly woven together;
severed at the stem and
stripped to its toes - a sapling,
flesh white and condemned
to a very public decay.
