Tea with the apostles.

We kissed goodbye. She somehow already knew
About the nearing blight,
Was whispering of leaves, and how they only turn
In the secrecy of night.

"The spider, giving in birth, must die," she wept,
Watching a stray leaf fall,
And waving, she drove away. I stood and stared,
Startled by it all.

The stars raced among the cold thin branches
Outside her window there,
Bedclothes hideously rustled, eyes brimming
Beneath her tussled hair.

The ravaged limbs toss as she wakes and sleeps,
Something repeats her name;
It was a dark and fitful wind and she
A song-tormented flame.

Nearly blind and deaf, her lips now dry,
I watch her smile fade,
And wonder how we never dreamed her so
Woefully arrayed.

"Oh ... last night I had tea with the apostles," she said,
All terror and giggle beneath
The white taut sheet her trembling fingers held,
The chattering of her teeth.

"They told me spring is near. Am I losing my mind?
I've never done this you know."
Eyes briefly flared. There is no forgetting the sound
Of a candle guttering so.

For NTH