Why can’t we be that golden
in our season of death?
The needles keeping us alive

we’ve tried to be like you
to live and die so
beautifully under loud angels

of geese in sky’s imperfect
clouds our conductors
into other measures of silence

in our poor soil just like yours
what makes you unique
in that green stand of black

spruce? We wanted to be that
evergreen until this
day you made us die again

and the names of Algonquin
speakers were lost
in cold wind when we forgot

everything alive In November
except you falling
into us with humus breath