| A clear stillness hangs in the air, glinting echoes like sunlight off a mirror. Familiar scents of cherry and cedar gently enfold my mind in whispering memories of you. Lingering traces of gold, pollen from the thousand wreathes we wove, stir in the shadows I breathe. Only spiders weave now -- homes of old maid's lace. The red-gold of autumn leaves has faded, like my own rich locks now turned to grey, while the winter wind scours my old bones. The once-cherished garlands have long been laid aside, but the soft voice of memory still haunts me with that fearsome word ... alone.
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