I see. Your verses tell the depth
of your history, a lineage stretching back
into the mists of time, your ancestors
coal now. And more recently,
your joyous sonnet sings, how you burst
fresh and green from tight buds
and how you spent the summer
singing with ten hundred birds
before you followed them
into the sky and then falling, here,
to the breast of Mother Earth,
surrendering yourselves to her
in this one last gift of beauty.
And all the days between
the bursting and the fall,
your lines reveal, were rich
and full beyond all expectations.
I see. Here in your lines and colors
I read your song. And I am
blessed. Rest well.