An Uneasy Truce

I dressed myself in finest rags

and wished away the formic decay;

always the eyes chance themselves

toward that little flame.

I stay contented, cherishing dissolved fury,

spent embers, ashes;

pitch lowering by notes.

Not much hope in this beleaguered burl

but hurled upon a weary sonnance

I detach from the tide

and drift.

Hot or cold, untold sensation

demands no such definition,

for me the tree sways not only for breeze

but to atone for time

spent in stillness.

Reflection to emulation,

I sway also, shedding my own

spent foliage.