A morning stroll
through woodlands still dark,
unblessed by light of dawn,
and the birds are singing her
welcome to their realm.
Leaf snow falls
upon her head, to her feet,
joining pine cones and other
debris to crunch beneath
steps placed soft
with lingering slumber.
She wakes though,
as the forest bleeds
and the birds cry a warning,
when instead of leaf she spies
a hand: pale, almost blue,
no longer buried
in its autumn grave.
Any thoughts?