It snowed that morning,
scarring the end of something
forgotten,
pitied lost repression,
buried with each shy snowflake.

Uncontested petals from the
formerly statuesque tress, fell,
sundered,
dancing their merry little
way to the vacant ground.

And a feather dropped from
an outcast swan, alone it
forlornly
surrendered to the frigid
incapability of the terra firma.

On that Saturday morning,
nothing could have fallen,
plummeted
as sporadically as I did,
for each of your rays.