Crusts

Leaves fall to the ground that day.

Time strikes half past dead.

I smell the bitter scent of death.

Blistering tears of leaves scatter

in banshee winds, howling sorrowfully.

Rough hewn afternoon, bloody street,

tones of Fall written in somber gray.

The hour was hers and hers alone -

a fallen leaf carved on frozen earth.

Sneering trees and wounded leaves,

weeping willow mourns her loss

shadowed eyes, ashen, downcast

white blur of sorrow marks her grave.

I stand at the casket and watch rain,

cold quilts of silver ribbons entwined,

wishing I could have controlled

the raging, endless storm of her mind,

the crumbles of her life scattered

as crusts of leaves, fallen and decayed.