I hoard the gold
of poplars, silver bark of birch
till they brown in earth
and fade as we do
under the witness of trees.
My bulls and bears
trample and snarl at my need.
I’ll eat each slice
of moon’s shadowy bread.
Live on waves.
Dash on rocks.
Nothing keeps me safe
as colors found then squandered.
Not paper made to buy our separation.
Not one thing bright that cost a life.
From: https://canarylitmag.org/archive_by_author.php?id=283
Date: 2015
By: Florence Chard Dacey (19??- )
From Troubles of The World 