The cold November air chilled my bones
As we walked out into the kingdom of
Green on brown that seemed to silently
Weep from the fresh rain still clinging
To the lingering emeralds overhead.

We stood on the hill where the flowers grew,
Holding the bag brimming with white
That seemed so much heavier in my hands
Than it truly was. The river traded its
Cheery dirge for a mournful ballad.

My hands, they trembled as I tipped the bag,
Spilling the bone-white embers that fluttered
In the chill breeze, like the first snow
Of the year, only to be lost to the
Next storm to weep over the barren land.

I stayed there for an eternal minute,
Anchored by memories fading,
Before turning my back to the gray dust
Peppering the bleak, brown dirt.