Rothko

On waking:
Dream still fertile,
Two planes in one
Endless landscape,
Colors of soil and moss
And that is all. 

Do I have the right
To tell another to live?
The waiting eternal
Comforts us.
I believe this.

Defining, I look out
At ancient,
Sanctified ground,
Where beyond, in grey daylight,
Blue jays flit,
Bolts primary
Against russet-red maple,
Jeweled green-dressed trees
Yet to change
Behind the red
Barn roofs below,
Season's decay golden
In the garden,
The aboriginal dying
Returned to

Soil, moss.