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.