THISTLE

A short time long:
Were we ever here at all?
Old wife do you remember who
Or why those warriors were?
I know you by this ring, so many lovers old,
Dry white wine, lambed cuts cold.
Our anger was the flowering of thistles and fireweed.
Let us be like seeds caught in the gathering wind,
The backs of hares, in the bowels of birds;
Scattered to the immortal hills.