The setting sun
Sinks slowly behind
The snowflamed mountain range.
I am not here.
I haven’t been
For years.
There’s a calm
That explains it as it
Perforates the fields
And then sublimates
For one last time
The mountains’ icy shields.
The mist made here
Is all that our
Elegy shall be,
The shunned sun
Still appealing,
Its rind left on the sea.