I saw great shade-casting green built upon pines,
like statues ripped the Earth stretching up to the skies.
Never could you reach, and yet you live to try,
But the heaven and the Earth seem lovers by design.

Billowing clouds, feeding roots that build shrines
that I won't live to see completely arise.
For my own pallid self - or for beauty - heart cries?
They stand so stoic and draped, in flowers and vines.

As I'm lost in the calls of the overhead crows
rained in each fluttering fall of feather delivered.
Drop. Like my once-glossed eyes emptying this soul
and my weighty life into the likewise sobbing river.
Casting out, casting off. Isn't it the same as to sow?
The river does not pause; why then dwell on what differed?