A seaons turn approaches and
What is left here will rot
And eventually die.

This slow death is a typical goodbye.
Even after the rejected acceptance,
The unwelcome affair lingers and the snow
softens the ground with an early burial.

What’s moving is your minds way
Of making up for lost words.
Like a tendency of misfortune
Spilling out and upon
Yourself and what is left of its own being.

Shutting and opening;
Battling the moist curvature of mourning.
Last winter was a bitter one…
Your white fingers press against the frost
And plead for a softer leave

No sorrow is left between life and this death,
Between these winds of last season.

Tomorrow we will wear black.