spring to me a spider's web 
as death takes me a thousand times 

a year ago tomorrow 
that I died without fame 
and without sorrow 

with a drop of water from the 
morning dew, the dampness 
of the early dawn with 
unmistaken clues 

a thousand times to remember 
here, a thousand times to 
the day that death appeared 

and trap among the ruins 
of my brain, before I live as 
dying is but a name 

a flower, a fragrance, a rose 
to know that it will repose 
in the coming of winter 

too cold without rain, the ice 
to crack in the pain 

with spring in the distant past, and 
farther in the future, 
a web damped and cold 
as death a thousand times 
was all but a year ago