Yutka

Ah, those emerald ephemeral days, they pass with seasons! The early autumn months where greens have reason to convert to gold. A trace of blood imbues the speckled scene with thought like dabbled shades of sadness,

As time dissolves to no return, I'll be the urn that still keeps standing, loam-based, tall, holding in essence, what I am and all that I will ever be and can sustain: Silent, earthen and earthly,