The sun fell
In a pattern of one
Pine above yellow
Broom and the slow
Shining of water.
The sun fell
In a pattern of Whose,
I thought, face
Would be all just
Turning and not
Yet and a white
Hand replacing
Brightness precisely
Afterwards
And
The sun falls
Now in a red
Wall and a tree
Without leaves, the one
Tree, and they say,
They tell me that she's
Dead