Warm breaths in dying days, when the light wanes
As dirt turns to stone and paths don habiliments
Of auburn and memories. A mourner’s train
Trails along sylvan halls for she forlorns a love dead. Bent,
Tree’s canopies crumble beneath northern gales and western tear’s
But in waning hours I shall sit in glade and watch in sweet bliss
—I shall hold to the dying warmth and cling to that I hold dear—
The procession, as the sun kisses me one last time