Beauty In Death

I remember it like it was yesterday, although it has actually been 7,730 days. I was still a relatively young man, little more than 15,000 days old when this happened.

­Monochrome snow
    From a sky of lead,
 Cold winds and rain,
    Summer is dead.

Heaven’s grey shroud,
    Featureless and plain,
 Weeps for the past
    Cold pellets of rain.

This season surreal
    Mocks life at its best,
 While a squirrel yet scampers
    To stock up his nest.

Bare trees stand silent
    As though out of breath.
 How can there be
    So much beauty in death?
18 October 1996

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