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 there is a thing of dying a sieve that runs runs through the mind time catches in the hollow vessel dying left behind
