Do you spy green sprigs on a hill,
Hiding an underworld beneath?
A barrow of whispers?
Lines of letters, milling
On nametags, on poems, on pedigrees,
Like diplomat zombies?
Then I, the wildfire’s pinpoint spark,
I dim, and I drift among the leaves
As ash in an evening breeze.
A Beornic hermit, I subsist,
But for fur, growls, claws, fangs, the stink of bear and blood.
“Beloved Father and Husband”;
Entombed in pine, under granite and grass, I break down—
Fabric tongue unraveling,
Losing all but my name.
Judging from my classmates’ reactions, I have over-subtle-ized this and obfuscated my meaning. I didn’t intend that at all. I changed the title to contextualize it a bit better, but you’ll have to let me know if it works. I might just need to add a bunch more stanzas to flesh things out.