October’s dying breath beneath the mottled moon
Where the willow weeps and dusk creeps through its thinning veil of green,
One foot in the grave, winter calls.
I sink on a bed of auburn. Pray for rest
In the leaves that rot sweetly into the earth,
Under the touch of a thousand bare-thorned branches,
I tangle with the bitter wrath of the wind.
Not yet entombed, but languid, like the creatures
of a seasonal burial, I do lie.
May the roots weave over my borrowed bones,
Pull me down into the weary silence of sleep,
Endless sleep. Cradled in the dark,
Let the worms unlace my mud-worn skin,
take up residence in my sunken
lungs.
By flesh,
by bone,
I am the soil.
Lips pale,
a pulse grown faint
One foot in the grave,
I answer winter’s call.
Illustration by Mio Shinohara @mio_shinohara_art for The Student
