A March morning, I last saw her,
Jade in her eyes,
Mossy fingered stare,
As she tiptoed through my garden.
And her long veil draped her silhouette,
Leaving traces among the kale,
Her lips, the red of their veins,
Her breath, their gathered tears.
I welcomed her home and watched.
From my kitchen window, I saw her,
The flash of steel blinding,
Hitting the sun’s face upon her blade
As she split the day.