Many a winter bring a whispered chillof promises, a silken-back of silveredleaves. Yet, in the barren tableautrees remain beneath the endless palesky of melancholy internal hibernation.

Bruising the marigolds, the sound of ticking emanating from everywhere and nowhere. Echoing from the cornices of my mind a maddening note. Cloaked in the night as dark is my piccolo>, tapping the thunder...ticking. Sloshing through the crescendo. Bruising...

No silken sheet, no downy rest on the cold on its breasts on a hoary bed of granite gray beneath time's decay with a frost of spectral lace no waking hour, nada a final breath in this solemn space...