In the arms with fog 
Miles from the bog 
Hands of rust 
Red panel dust 
Met by only the deer 
Surrounded by no fear 
Cisterns long dried 
Where no one lied 
  
Yellow weeded graves in meadows 
The fence where you sung your song 
What is contained in murky shadows 
Too dark to see what is already gone 
  
Denying the return 
Grip what you learn 
Not enough to mend 
At the edge of the end 
  
No fossils in the creek  
No dew on the needles
No crypts in the cathedral  
No thread spun for weaving 
The love of remembering 
What is now impossible to seek.