To Whom the Dead Belong

The earliest shoots of spring sing of death,

leurs hymnes solennels emportés par le vent,

gravity in their greenery as the earth turns

at their growth and draws down stripped ribs

& moss-darkened skull, winter's kill claimed

by its successor. Last year's youth, a buck,

arched in repose, verdant promise pulling at

sun-bleached bone, sipping sorrow and shadow

across the leaf-heavy threshold they breach.

In vernal voices vowed: what winter culls

we collect, nothing lost we won't return.