Sing to me Spiraea.
Blossom white-wisp floss,
I missed your softness in the Spring,
I missed her whispers in a stream,
Another year of loss.
My life’s a simple pebble
On the pebbled-path,
Every stone unpolished there
Another death to cast.
I sing of songs your bones would hear
When no man would then listen,
And in a moonlit clearing there
I tuned a light blue whistle.
Sing to me Spiraea,
By Autumn be denuded;
It’s been a year,
We dance my dear,
Like friends who never parted.
