The rusted swings rocked
As the breeze yawned,
The sun became cold and pallid.
A brown paper kite tangled itself
In the braches where yellow eyes
peeked from inside a tree.
She laid her silver head on the russet grass,
And waited for the stars to vanish,
She stared at the uneven yellow eyes
until they closed.
The last scarlet leaf
fell of the tree.
The eyes became hands,
The hands were the time,
The last tick,
The last beat,
Her last breath.
(The death of Autumn and the birth of Winter)