• • •

With Rain’s demise and Sun’s absence, Land
suffered from barrenness.  Green, no longer —
Tall Corn unable to rise, Oaks’ sap
long dried—Land lived her winter of ruin.

Bleak was the habitat of the Creatures
who roamed the tan dust, who swam the waves,
who flew the void.  The cycle of seasons
was now a memory, a tragic myth.

Imagine not one grove with bluebells
and mourn gently of their passing grace.
If the sea should lose the mighty whale,
wail threnodies of tender, sour pain.