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A Midwinter Night's Eve

A Midwinter Night's Eve

No trace of summer yet; the world was dead.
The sun was slowly dying, too, and like
Some ancient monarch lay, a rotting hulk
Wrapped in robes of pure magnificence -
Of purple, liquid gold, and bleeding red,
Reflecting off the few gray clouds above
Like flowers thrown upon a frozen grave.
A minute's silence for a fallen king.

The service over and the body lowered,
The day itself now buried in the past,
We see the widow slowly turn away,
Painfully pull on a robe of black,
And wander off to seek oblivion
In dreams of reuniting with the sun.

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