before the spell that winter cast,
i lived with autumn for awhile –
the days were twisted wide and vast
and there, upon a sudden smile
she looked at me, expectantly;
amused at all the raging bile
the news had likely fed to me –
a room in which she would not dwell,
a noise she heard, but would not heed,
although i found it just as well:
the ideas, words she didn’t need,
for all that came so loud had passed
and quiet on the autumn mile,
the few short months that we amassed
of my vain stretch, and her soft style
were all there was to her and me —
a picture snapped, a photocell,
a life, a time, a coterie,
a season down; a day that fell –
the itch you scratch until you bleed,
the open sore you see aghast,
the long regret that spans the screed
before the spell that winter cast
