A featured apostrophe inwinter’s text.A collector of the lost, the glassforgotten: bottle-blue.
A shard of skyin the char.A blackened songit does not sing.
It keeps the chlorophyll’s slow smoulderturns every branch to burnt lace—a silver bead on birch’s cheek—this archive of wood’s weep.
The green confessionalsears memory all year:rain’s scent on scorched stonea root caged in a skull’s crypt.This season’s pyre, the ancient cost—a future reckoned, a future lost.
Time’s count threads the years.A stilled bird call.A ghost of ash.The bell’s toll—the weightof vanished wings.
Hark: one for sorrow.Two for dreams unmoored.Three for the mouth that sings the rust,that claims belonging—in dust.