Windward, past the blades of grass

Windward, past the blades of grass
Stained ochre by the sun’s pale glow,
Lie gentlemen of ill-repute,
Those gods aloft, their lanterns low,
And further on, beyond the dusting
Of a spring-defiant snow,
The bleached bones of an ancient forest
Wear away, and row by row

The beetles skitter, crawl away,
To other sources of decay
And formerly putrescent bodies
Dissipate, as dust,

And pollen that once floated there,
Laid golden sheets across the air,
Rests stale along an acrid plain that’s
Hardened into rust.