Beneath fresh draped arms of greenest leaves and flinging

Traces sensed, and among the stranger sights and sounds

That have become the lights and darks of cleaving

Moments known as this (this!) this new war: bouts and rounds

Of ammo mean and loud as tempests: truth abounds

Sacredly, under limbs limberest green, with fire

Under skin. So. Do not bury me believing

Me quiet, never I, my crimson, but with pyre

Already past, lend ashes to the leaves’ sweet receiving

Branching breath. Do not sigh, or mourn, or yet be glad

To be rid of such weight, but take heart, never tire,

And sing for love that in such mortal hands we had

And hold true. For truth…love…both are each, and higher

Clarity shows stronger, beautiful green as bright

As daylight, radiant through leaves though it is night.