It was just last nightmare,
as I unwound my braid by the window…
Busy fingers glazed in slow candle light, the wax drips.
Magic is a supple blade: it can take away as easily as she gives. Slow words guild my tongue, stained with intention. Soon autumn will come for you.
Slip its way under the crack in the door.
By the time you notice the draft, it will be too cold. Too late.
The leaves are dying my love.
But to me, I croon
everything feels exceptionally alive.