five stanzas, thirteen words, seventeen syllables

To be

Free

Becoming

What is

Is

Itself

To be

Free

All

Alone

feels like unnaming suffices

 Faint blue gray

Morning eaves

Drip

We are all

Alone

No bird sings

Cracked shell

Scattered on 

Snow

nessuna chiamata

 Mostly quiet

This dark night

Nothing else

Only itself