East Face

I gently decompose in a green grove,

shedding my tired flesh until fresh moss

and ichor coagulate to emboss

forgotten meadows that hollowed a cove

that somehow smells of deep earth and fresh clove.

Despite my new form being steeped in loss,

I find myself waiting to come across

sticks and stones that compliment what I wove.

I pursue satisfaction in shadows

despite their incorporeality

But even though I can touch Spring meadows

my fingertips won't find more clarity.

While I treasure what nature did endow

We both know it’s not my finality.