The fire burned low below
the weeping arms of willows
leaves singed inconsolably
as scattering ashes drifted
on a wayward wind.
Inside the ember’s absolution
the closeted memory remained
of sunset farewells fraught with tears
whispering into blankets of darkness
“Return, Return,” the echoing reproach,
ignored, castigated, lampooned,
a dying martyr’s memory of misdeeds.
The forest was a vail of sorrow,
a troubling mantilla pinned to crowns
of cascading branches, littering leaves
nut brown piles of rotting pine needles
fragrant with the perfume of winter.
Waters lapped the shores
as disaffected lovers hovered
in starlight played their shadow’s game
the wheeling constellations ticking
off the moments passing by.
Somehow, despite their animated fornications,
their declarations, their conspiracies,
somehow, despite their dusk to dawn embraces,
the truth of morning light sundered
their false elations.