I hear its song in the wind.
Its mournful rhythm swaying through the leaves.
It's calling me to see its glory, its splendour.
Its calling me to sleep, a leafy lullaby.
Its rustle reminds me of a long hooped dress,
rustling across the ground. Running. Laughing. Hiding. Lost.
I am the wearer of the dress.
Silken leaves shimmy to a bride's first dance.
I am Meinir that runaway bride, lost inside the tree.
My bones will not be found inside the lightning  shattered tree, my soul is in the voice of the Talking Tree.

Cold air swirls and clings to my naked form
arms outstretched I feel the icy grip of peace.
Divested and devoid of all personal items I walk to the edge
Naked as a new born under a baleful moon I am reborn.
This new birth will not last, it's a temporary relief.
Clad only in my skin the cold scrolls over my body
I feel its grip, its participation in this my final act.
The wind now howls, as if it too wants a role in this my curtain call.
Whipping at the frosty air these elements almost make me stay.
Toes poised on the cliffs edge, head thrown back, eyes closed,
face upturned towards the moon's celestial il luminance
Ill light indeed, for it allows me to see my path in the dark.
That path is a spiral into the water below