Inside the silence,
there were voices.
Some just scratched the surface and that was all.
Whether it was the madness of the season,
or the chill running down her spine,
she left sometime in the Fall.

Her eyes glazed over with a silver lining,
lips vermilion like the cardinals in the trees,
cheeks rosy and very much alive yet,
she'd speak not a word to me.

Nor to anyone else who came to visit,
they sat, perplexed, much like myself.
No words, no cries, no, nothing at all,
could bring back the ******* the shelf.

So she sits there, just like me,
waiting for something to change.
Will flowers sprout,
and continue to grow,
in a cold month of May?