There is no day so dear as the last hour spent.
In the misty veil of morn,
crickets and frogs cry for love.
And on an island surrounded in the black glass
of a brackish sea
braces a lone white soldier-
birch,
still tender and sweet with shoots.
Through the bog dead cousins poke their rotting heads,
anxious to grow again, to taste life,
But even the breeze which swirls the morning air
cannot put breathe to their soggy roots.
Then the wind stirs
nervous buds;
little pieces of dirt are slapped away
into the mud, and the bottom feeders.
And Nature carves...
Breeze,
and the red morning sun
lift the veil of the black bride;
reptile and insect alike
end their mourning cries.
A birch, snowy pure
and not so far away-
Is it alone?
it is.
Thick water eats at a dry patch of dirt.