On the Edge

See now that I am not a Ghost
among men.
Know I am a green giant of solid contempt
among the rocks and the trees and the birds
of the sky.
Solid, yet decorative and flimsy with moss,
lichen and dew: blinded Sunday starlight.
See, too, the sea—no the ocean—blanketing the
Silver line of the chilly morning.
Morning.
Mourning.
Mourning the still silent bubbles of stoppage
in time—bright pearls of clear, crystal lopping
up a frozen, sodden sweater,
green in the distant blue and further unfurling blue
sky.
To sleep long,
look now that I am not a Ghost;
among men.