By Lotte Kramer
I come to your hill-borne dust,
Grass blanketed in August.
Blossom falls from autumn hands
Flaming my sorrow to you.
Here your bones are still and dry.
Your fight for unaltering love
Brings blood to my new losing.
I drink from your streaming cup.
Something died of your many gifts
Drenched in uneven years
When the needle scored too deep:
I forgot your beginnings.