the larch rests, moss-covered
in the pleasant mist of the spring
almost not started;
the wet leaves stick to my soles
and steps fill with the green
that was and would be
after the pale yellows and browns
coming through fog, instantly
lost as the drops from the twigs
slowly condense across the dark wings
of an early morning crow on the sand.
sleep, my soul, resting
from trains of dreams,
where those lost go to dwell
within the shards of victories
of the other side.