“Heather,” she said.
Mead, and garnished roots; she hithers.
The clearing was all too much; a wreath of feathers.
Lament the spilled wine, but-
never the scent of pine.
“Heather,” I called.
Swans in speculation; a sunset amidst clouds.
Lay your doublet to brimstone; freckles pooled in mounds.
So far away, but-
prithee-at this funeral-stay.
Somebody said Heather;
as faint as the moonlit speckle-
fleeting, kin to a lover’s sigh.
“Here, Heather,” she said-