It is the June of no summer
misty margins shift
gray to white-blind
the view is winter
the aftertaste bitter
in a perfumed sea
this shrine
both lovely
and disconnected
serenely denies
the fog’s lies

all is quiet
the Western front
sullenly submits
to relentless
willful weather
I listen only
to the birds
conjure storms
of wisdom
await the lightening
of oppressive skies