Dead in the cold, a song-singing thrush,
Dead at the foot of a snowberry bush, -
Weave him a coffin of rush,
Dig him a grave where the soft mosses grow,
Raise him a tombstone of snow.
by Robert FitzgeraldThe wispy cuttings lie in rows where mowers passed in the heat.
A parching scent enters the nostrils.
Morning barely breathed before noon mounted on tiers of maples, fiery and still. The eye ...