The gloomy days awaken her, a spore in child's pose
the bony fingers of the trees, fractal silhouettes
against a foreboding periwinkle, breathe life
into her one rib at a time. The air, the pollen,
the delicate white wings of magnolia fluttering to the sidewalks
collecting and browning and decaying,
dying as all beautiful things do, fill her nostrils
with the scents of the macabre, the hopeless romance
waiting to trap her in its snares, its carnivorous tendrils
and the puppeteer thinks he is what is making her dance.
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