Upon the breeze, a tiny frame,
wings still, a fading, gilded name.
Sweet nectar’s longing, tongue outstretched,
a final sip, a world detached.
Within frail petals, softly laid,
a garden vigil, gently swayed.
The sun descends, a crimson stain,
earth claims her own, in soft, sweet rain.
THE LONELY WHITE WOLF 