your eyes
can no longer see,
my dear.
but the fading
fall leaves
still turn dusty,
as the sky
grows grey,
while sharp rain
descends onto
your ashes.
wet snow
will soon clump,
and freeze
and disintegrate
away.
oh, my dear
your eyes cannot see,
but they are
still seen
in every waking
moment
of every passing
day.
YOU ARE READING
asterism
Poetrya prominent pattern of words too small to forge through the deep yet large enough to accompany space.
