Her golden tresses float
one by one-- down
No longer her crowning glory;
simply a reminder of what was--
what cannot be--
tormented by those perfect coiffures surrounding.
She would gather gossamer strands to bosom,
had she one to do so;
perhaps, even collect them to be worn again.
If only there were strength to be had....
Yet fortitude flew like Spring
taking with it the Summer joys
'til all that remains is the falling.
She awaits now.
There is but one final season
and her barren soul reflects the trees...
naked; dormant; forgotten
as her golden tresses float down.