"April the month you left, I cried
not for the leaving, but for the answers
they did not come, you took them with
you, like the spring, like the summer,
the snow came early, you carried the
sun in your purse, deep down among
the lost items there, with my heart as well.
My words tumbled out, falling on the
floor like the dust under the chairs
were we never swept, we worried it
would sweep away the spirits of the
woods were we lay upon the grass.
They no longer sing, the sprites, the
songs in the wind, they are silent now."

"Why would you not fight for us?
were we not worthy of the effort?
Was I not worthy of the tears?
Did you just grow tired, or bored
with the words, ones without spirit?
Was my shame not enough to cover
us both with pain to last our lifetimes?
Did you withdraw your feelings before
the cuts became too deep and raw?
You took the last two good words we
had left, kept them all to yourself.
Now I wonder, what you think about
does the night ever carry you back?