The light fades soft and yellow on the leaves,
dead, forgotten, bruised from hardened shoes
and the girl sits upon them, a book in her hands.
She waits and watches, she watches and waits
as seconds thread onto minutes and minutes onto days,
and those days have softened, moulded, wrapped around weeks.

Her thoughts linger on those silent weeks,
They soften, and mould, wrap around the leaves
and the thought of him mars those heavy, endless days,
those endless hours. The sound of his shoes
echoes high above the trees while she watches and waits,
hoping for hope that he will return, that he will hold her in his hands.

The other boy, her other boy, withholds his hands
for they are full of darkness, of death, of numbered weeks.
He will open at the close, he will die, but they wait
a little longer with naïve faith and faithlessness. Leaves
lie dead, forgotten, bruised from hardened shoes
and the other boy, the black, green and golden boy counts down his days.

We could stay here, she says, we could hold onto your numbered days.
We could grow old, she says, and keep your life in our hands,
Nothing would die, nothing would wither beneath our shoes.
But the seconds thread onto minutes and minutes onto days
Like beads of something more than wasted weeks
and the light fades soft and yellow upon the leaves.
His eyes are dead, forgotten, bruised, but still, she waits.

On and on until the snow lies thick, she waits
and the frozen hours thread into frozen days.
The light fades hard and blue, there are no leaves,
for they are dead, and buried, lost until Spring. Her hands
are shoved deep, encased in a woollen shroud, and the passing weeks
echo, they shudder, they flicker as she listens for the sound of his shoes.

Stitch upon stitch, time threads rough, and her shoes
lie still upon the ice. She makes fire, conjures heat as she waits
but the stitches fray, and the days fall like minutes, the weeks
fall like snow until they melt into nothing. He fills her passing days
with thoughts of lips, bare skin, hands, and hands, and hands.
And though it’s Winter, the tears from her lashes fall like leaves.

Winds change, leaves bloom with gentle scorn and his shoes
come soft, hands open, lips shut in awkward silence. She waits
as the days become undone, as the weeks shed Winter. They are alive.