Hush her haunted
She still does not know
When half of her goes to the underworld
The other shivering half remains on earth
Autumn—
Her body is a grave that she sleeps in,
dreaming of how she died.
Her golden hair blackens
The warm leaves curl into themselves
And it all shrivels away
Winter—
She deadens the earth in her shell
She leaves the woods hollowed
Bringing her pale basins of snow
She lays so quiet, in a bed of her dark hair
Turning the rivers into sheets of ice
But no, she cannot forget
Her body – that grave
Autumn is not really dead; she slumbers
And winter will harden her shadows
But they still burn inside her lucid cold
Waiting for the warmth to release them

“It never ends”
”What, dear?”
“Sorrow”