He walked as I always walk,
grown gaunt, gawky; cold as icy skies,
where light will pry among grey storm clouds,
while he fears his parting and the shroud.
Crowd the candle, clutch at straw,
while gnawing winds rush through the eaves.
Autumn falls about our heads, with not one sigh,
from splintered trees.
So long grown, longer turned to stone,
they groan to no one,
among a soaking splatter of leaves.