Only clay

Plum and fuchsia blossoms

all fallen now

Dead and brown in undergrowth

Spark of light

lit the fuse

Green tides follow

ungrateful, unknowing

from whence they’ve been wrought

When two fortnights have passed

the waves recede

Their supple skin to wither

shed to the earth

Languish in the damp

food for springtime spores

Or burn upon pyres

an offering

to unnamed gods

What would we be

to shed our own with such ease

No ash, no dust, only clay

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