There is a house at the edge of the woods
Where a man once loved a woman
He had painted it the color of her eyes
Which were umber
And wild

When she was gone, the morning wept for her
And the thrushes mourned with their songs
Though they did not know it

He found quiet places for her
In dust that hung in sunbeams
In corners pooled with darkness
and heavy with unspoken grief

Now, there are only whispers
When wind finds purchase in each crack
As the house crumbles
And opens itself to gentle starlight

The slow curiosity of the forest
As it begins to take from the house
Roots with their sorrowful strength
Reaching from the floorboards

Until there is no house at all
Only trees holding her in their blossoms
That catch the hushed rain
And grow wildflowers rich with the scent of her memory