hollow (acoustic)

There is a thing of dying In the falling of the birches And the roots that mangle the cottage path in summertime There is a coldening, a quickening A closing of the wills There is an ember of light that remembers And a thing of dying that doesn't The feelings grow older The sun sets The eyes exchange wonders Snow falls, birds sleep, time pours A sieve runs through the mind And there are willows in the hollow vessel Dying left behind