Pine
Her face in the window
was it the rain
or a ghosts tears
residual moistening pane
crying again
moaning from the hearth
a dying embers glow
as I hear a pine needle
fall to the snow
feel hollow
her voice in my head
directing my script
possessing my page
from a dark lonely crypt
her sadness dripped
recalling ripped letters
a specter wept stain
over the note of her loss
and inconsolable pain
all hope vain
of her soldier returning
she lay down to sleep
never to awake
searching for him in the deep
and I hear her weep
outside my window
and somewhere in my soul
and if it is silent
she will whisper low
like a pine needle falling to the snow
