Her Final Spring

She died old,

then stillborn, rose;

damned destiny

grim.

 

Watched stars

begin in off-key chinooks

of skulls and skins

picked from sea's

hoary bed,

earth's eager

gullets. Weighty

what-ifs of last husk

lines

 

designed as

assents to arias

in agony,

to riffs of snakes

whispering dry grass

thus echoed in aeriform

summaries.  Dirt

road solitude

remembered her from

the ancient apple-green

quart jar

of homemade

blackberry wine.

 

Of final spring,

attending blooms

fed a fading stalk;

had her diagnosed as ash,

then washed her out

their cheatgrass

hair.