It came to be like the change in the seasons.

Stubborn, gradual then all of a sudden.

There was no line drawn between the spring and the summer

Only the barest breath of hesitation

Then I was already mid-air through

What felt like a very long fall.

He was the river that ran through my woods

Generous to a fault.

He gave to all who asked.

And like a fool

I thought the drink he gave me was sweeter

But it was simply the ambrosia in my thoughts

That rained down and tinted honey on my lips.

My portion was no more than theirs

Despite the colors that I bloomed on my hair

He was nothing but cruel in his fairness.

So I let it die as quietly as it was born,

Though at the time I could have sworn it felt

Like a tree that fell in a lush forest,

With a trunk so great but brittle,

With a reach so high but leafless

whose crash not a single soul bore witness

That sometimes even I wonder was it ever really there

The grave of the fool who grew wildflowers in winter.