The Barren Woods

When did, in the late spring of my years,

the forest become so barren?

Wandering, I can only find trees,

with roots watered in booze

and twigs of glass

that whisper in the dark.

The trees crumble to ash when I touch them,

sweeping away in the wind.

The ash burns when it blows in my face,

bringing tears to my eyes that are black when they roll down my cheeks.