The seasons shave and smother it.
The air sculpts its unmoving brow.
It sniffs the summer swell, the winter
Drain. It slopes supinely, ever unstirred,
Constrained in its death-feigned being.
Its soul shifts like the ocean deep, ageless
And ceaseless, only briefly torn from
The eager undertow of forgetfulness.
Yet still it harbours the early warmth
Of spring, the cautious caress of life
Yet unspooled, the morose magenta
Dusk, the long sting and sleepless still.