A weeping woman slouches at the foot of a grave.
On the headstone sits a raven, but
in his black eye is nothing and nothing is reflected there.
The wind whispers, it blows upon her tears but
it does not dry them.
Tossed by the wind are yellow leaves which lick along the grass.
Those on the tree tremble.
The sun is out but it does not shine
from behind the clouds in her mind.
Memories claw her brain, finding only guilty sustenance.
Sobs leap in her throat but choke in the silence
of the dead who refuse to die.
Black skirts rustle, bringing the memory of feathers.
The woman looks to the bird on the stone; her eyes
echo nothing, which they do not see there.