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