Lady Nature on the Lethe

I had her for a thousand months.

She was my finest patron,

a nymph with leaf-golden hair.

She'd bring me the fresh pulp

of bodies gnashed by rocks,

faces blackened by storm.
She quickly forgot them, licking

the sockets of my skull,

thrusting a hand through my robe,

tugging on my mortality,

glistening the vipers of my lips

with the balm of her fingertips,

a frost like failing autumn.
Every morning her garden was
withered and grey, dry as my bones,

though every night it rained.