The Last Poem.

Black pines will quiver in the winter wind,
With limbs empty as oaks. They whisper "see,"
And few receive their fervent, voiceless friend,
Evolved and freed from heavy forms. The key,
The path through fallow fiery wrath is this,
That branches thrust with air will thrive as ash.
The number of the trusted friends, still stunned,
But strung together under love will be
Surprised to see the snow so soon to sooth;
To ease as into ice, to loosen truth.
Approach cold ocean's shores, approaching bliss;
A torch for hope and joy e'er shone so brash.
A cough will cause the rocks to fall on throngs; All
caught, all calm, all scarred, the Earth all wrong.

To have a home would always be an earthly bond.