Day 11

The wanton smell of former burnings
the fall is riddled with the dead and dying
the smell of the last shallow breaths of the earth
before no one remembers what spring has in store for our hearts

My hair falls to the west bringing
with it the epilogue to the final taste
of your hesitant tongue.

The only voice; the the counsel of birds
deploring that we seek comfort between the
cracks of the floor boards
with the sound of the taunting wind.

To die is gain bringing this untold story
to a close as winter will bring the fullness
of gestation beneath the thin veneer of
lidless clouds.