Now, wilt beneath the rising sun, and cast
away those dripping tears for dew does catch
the world in breathless awe - lost pity for
her sighing lips all dipped in mirror’s pool.
Beside the lake she stands and drowns anchored
to bruised hemlock trees that refuse to weep
nor tell her song of clovers numbered three.
What luck she wields –each dagger’s slash a strike
against such sacred flesh marbled by lack
of bitter red sanguine enveloping
all ghost that tread these fields in spring’s
dull memory. Revived, entranced by death’s
pale beauty, floats this graying sail too soon.
Why, Wind has taken all her breath and gave
it out to butterflies that swim her soul’s
new resting place for she is but the drowned.