friends to acquaintances
together to alone
comforting streams to open oceans
warm flesh to rotting bone
from bed to soil
from earth to unknown
what will you say
when i lay in a place no longer called my home
but a graveyard
of silence and of stone

a stranger in a holiday card
voicemails become mementos
my laugh an ancient folk song
and the poems will attest to those
for the words shall live on
through dusk onto dawn
they will merely curve to your interpretation now
the neck of a swan

knotted roots scatter violently from the stump of winter's barren tree
permeating frost grips each wilting branch, a blanket of sickness
only the crows that bore the blackest of feathers visit and admire it
for they commend the tree as it evades death's charcoal robes
they themselves have been plagued with the terminal numbing
and are perplexed by the grit of their natural friend
their companion is dying, from the inside out, as veins begin to clot
yet, within months, the tree will support families of robins and finches
dawning a thick coat of delicious apples and stunning leaves
as caterpillars create plated cocoons along sturdy bark
blossoming into brilliant, alluring butterflies before the crows' sable eyes
and now the crows feathers will dampen from pearl tears amidst the beautiful scene of transformation
as they question why spring's vitality exists for their friend
while they only feel winter's cold