Dead Forest

I stand here alone in that forest by the sea.
The trees have been shed of their skin,
Swaying gently like bare skeletons,
For winter has hit, and I can see
The fruits as they grow beards of ice
And drop to the ground for the hungry mice.

That cabin we built was just an illusion,
The music we sang but a painful echo--
A memory that I cannot let go.
The nightingales sing a song of confusion
As they flee from their nests of security
To the land that offers golden purity.

My muse has died, but I drag her corpse
To the beachhead of the frozen sea,
That place where her spirit was most free,
That everlasting, renewable source
Of life; which is now an icy mirror
Into which I must eternally peer.

Our orchard has withered, and now I wear
These old rags that kept me safe from shame,
For my love has left me without a name;
She left by boat and left only a hair--
And I have done my utmost duty
To preserve this artifact of beauty.

I must climb these mountains without my love,
The earth's cold hat on which I must tread
Alone—atop that snow-festooned head,
Without a fur coat, or even a glove;
And I'll look upon the dead horizon:
A flat gray with a white winter sun.

No more do I hear the sighs of the trees,
Nor do I feel wet kisses on my face,
But I can feel the winter's cold embrace
And the warmth is replaced by the laughing breeze;
For our golden heart's shattered, but I will be
Clutching its pieces in our forest by the sea.