Poems of Lighthouse Bob

Dying Flame #379

Dying Flame
Ignited,
still,
the embers rest
upon the knees
and swollen chest
that muzzled in the underline
of snowy thick and scent of pine
rises to,
but, then, declines
to boldly take a breath.

What's death?

In frozen wood,
no squall takes shape
of whisper in the solaced scape
where, sanctioned, footsteps,
ne'er replaced,
remain an open shrine.

What is mine?