Far unflowered is that
which far from here the
few set out to find: a dome-
capped diffident minding its own
among the sad and soggy
coppice at the end of sunlight.
I see branches everywhere, I do,
and I see nature in its soil and sway,
and ogle birds like you, and all things
rolling green — for sure, I do. I do!
Tho dead things rolled aside
have had their time.
What should I say,
what thanks for growing in the
graveyard?
Still, I linger: in the dirge it tucks,
it likes it there, quiet like the
skeletons that crown it king.
I bend down: far from light it shakes with
darkness better than I can —
I ask, between the fog: What is your secret,
quiet king, among the rush of death that
still you live? How can you thrive
in all forgotten places and as little
as you are?
On I shuffle through the underbrush,
no answer. The dusking orange
greets there in waves of waking dark,
and, knowing me, edges out
a grin.
