(15 November 2007)
And winter. Birch and poplar leaves
Like skin that has lost
Its colour and all warmth.
Sap throttled, light
Ripped from the sky —
Not you, it's I who live on
In this afterlife.
Clouds shot with blood and gold:
Mere memories of the day.
Underfoot, the leaf litter lies
Piled like cast-off clothes.
Stripped of your love
I stand bare
As a winter tree, with these
Arms that embrace
Nothing. No shelter am I
From the biting wind, no
Comforting heart beats
Next to mine in the night.
Your golden days still
Burn bright, yet spring seems
As faraway as religion
And resurrection a last rejected hope.
Forward to
Mountain For You, My Love
Back to
Bad Puns About Death
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