The hemlocks are swaying

Boreal's howling through the hemlocks,
ancient sentinels swaying to its capricious rhythm
gentle vistas yielding to more brooding skies
emerald green needles falling, spreading a rich green tapestry...

seated near the window, observing through the pane this mesmerizing display, nature is choosing to unfold like an enchanted tale.

Light dwindles, covered by thickening tufts of grey cotton gradually shifting my spirit, melancholy seeping through the veils of my flesh.

Whispers of the past, echoes long faded awakening, my heart bleeds again – not for the first time. Doors that were locked, opening even while the keys were hidden.

I see her, a shimmering reflection.
She lies still, ashen grey in her wooden home,
Although she faded years ago, me a stranger
from her own spawn. Retracing the words that were never spoken, now a pain etched deep.

My memory leaps, to even older ghosts, I see
white sheets, I see him, his eyes closed, his breath weak, the night lasts forever, my hopes are in vain.
No last words, no goodbye, just silence until his last breath.

And the hemlocks still swaying singing lullabies in the wind.