Kind Death has marked me for her own.
A bird from your beech.
A music sweet, of times unknown,
Hails me, tells me, I am Death's own.
From bees and birds and singing boughs
A chimney smokes afar: […] beneath
The foliage thick of maples.
Kind Death has eaten well.
Kind Death.
The maple [................], the children gather
Of yellow cups and pups […] a wreath
A cloud,
A cloud, slowly.