winter

The Rose Sleeps

lo! the rose sleeps in her grave
sheltered by no stone
no resurrection for her save
when winter’s gales are blown

for the summer’s warmest showers
have dried to death’s cold hand
and the harvest’s gifted hours
are stolen from this land

so the rose lies in her grave
blackened foul decay
no raptured resurrection save
the memories she plays.

Last Will

when all breath is gone and spent
and my heart is turned cold stone
from my breast this muscle rend
to bury in the woods alone
turn my body into ash
that it skyward should depart
but the one thing that I ask
leave earthbound my tired heart
for this moist ground should be the bed
eternal for that part of me
from which all worthy I have said
or loved or held or ever been.