Memories Like Marsh Bubbles Rise

What becomes of her heap

When the wind carries off

All the fresh dew and seeds...

Trading holes with what's not...

Through the cold and hard ice...

And the fresh eyes of spring...

She was buried from sight...

Cast adrift from all things...

In this place of dead roads

Where the sap from past griefs

Rides the rivers and tracks...

Passing furrows and reefs...

What becomes of her heap?...

Will she modify time?...

Watching convoys of snakes

Slithering past the lines...

What attributes to taste

When your grey lips breed dust

And the clouds leave a stain

That demands a paint brush...

At this bottomless deep

Where both hands slash at dark...

She will hang like a wreath

Over stems, and root bark...

What becomes of her heap

When the wind carries off

All the fresh dew and seeds...

Trading holes with what's not...

12/16/23

Bunny Villaire

Edit #2