Night slipped
Down her throat in soft, meager drops
And she was thirsty.
She walked alone, but
The setting sun's pink shroud (reflected
On the path, reflected
In the trees,
Defined in dark silhouette
On the looking-glass
Puddles in the road)
Knew her name,
And the blue ferns
On her simple dress
Knew the blue of her
Gray eyes.
The cold air whispered
The forest, which burned
Her ears. As she walked,
She remembered:
Silence is fatal,
More than a sudden noise.
She stopped singing.
As her feet grew heavy with wet,
With the mud of November,
She forgot that she was alive
And only watched the stillness
Of the swamps and the