Used to be a verdant green
Of fresh, newborn spring.
Evolved into a chilly thing,
Brown, dried husks,
A few barely clinging
To a tree in late autumn,
Seems something, someone
Sucked the hope out,
Fed on it as if it were life’s blood,
And everything is drained, a leftover hull
Of what once was. But everything goes on.
As if all is the same and nothing