and winter brings with it each year,
a weariness from the last tear
that tore its way out from my eye
with no will to lay down and die;
it’s not a proper death, my dear,
it’s a theft, a little each year,
yes, i resent this on the whole,
losing little parts of my soul,
little here, little there, little
went down the drain with my spittle;
so why do tears fall with those leaves?
why does the brain think as the heart grieves?
what answer I seek has nature guessed,
or has she in autumn confessed?
why is the tear still forming to flow?
what is it i do not in full know?
Is it the blight man was born for?
Is it me I quietly mourn for?
– inspired by loss
and by the climax of Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins