Russing Dining Winter

a brushing dying whisper   

   an old and emptied kitchen,
   to wait, long, for the cooks' gone pen
   those things black are rats are bold,
   and there is no light this late.

of pinÚd needles snapping   

   empty chairs and empty places,
   empty cold where once were faces
   once romantic walked the pairs,
   but these paths have aged too old.

green no longer on the tree   

   the door rotting on its hinges-
   it swings (winds with wintry tinges)
   and as I cross the tile floor,
   my knees regret past flings.

a brushing dying whisper   
of pinÚd needles snapping   
green no longer on the tree   

but shades of grey in falling.