How can I bring back the charm

Of a thing that has rotted,

Being slid stealthily into distaste

By the guile of time?

I did not see it leave,

And either forgot to mourn,

Or was distracted

And now I am sorry.

There is an impregnable layer of dust

Washed off of the sullen desert of winter

Where the dirt off the seemingly white trees

Was held by the snow

Until it became too much to bear.

And now such filth coats my lost companion

Who has descended into dream.