Black Snowdrops

I find myself among white,
the blood of clouds, cotton
tears for my sins.

The pale tea steams
in my thin fingers' nest,
its breath, the soul of Bashō,
awaiting a frog now dead.

The broken flowers at my feet
speak of a cruelty subdued by nature,
the inevitable grating by time
upon the limbs of the old.

I cannot cry, the snow
can do this for me.
Instead I will veil my face
to the mourning crows,
sip the bitter iron
in my tangled chalice,
remember the bad blows,
and set the past in ice.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.