The Day the Fox Forgot How to Sing

In the cathedral of trees, where shadows pool like wine,

the child sits, knees drawn, a rose bleeding crimson

against the gray.

The fox’s amber gaze, a silent vigil, fur matted with the forest’s breath,

each strand a thread of time unraveled.

The dress, once soft as dawn, now scrapes the earth,

threads unraveling like forgotten prayers,

hem heavy with the dust of paths not taken.

The rose trembles, its thorns sharp as the day

the fox stopped his singing,

a sound I had never considered until now.

Oh, the bells: how they clanged through the village square,

a heartbeat for the living,

while I pressed my ear to the coffin’s cold wood.

Now they echo in the hollow of my ribs,

a ghost rhythm in the mist,

each chime a nail in the lid of yesterday.

The fox leans close, breath warm as a last confession,

nose brushing the child’s wrist where the pulse

is a faint, fading bird.

The child’s fingers, pale as moonlight, trace the rose’s edge,

as if to prove the thorns are real.

The trees, ancient and bent, whisper of Sundays

when the bells called us to kneel,

now only the wind hums a dirge

through branches like broken spines.

Somewhere, a bark cracks the silence,

and the forest holds its breath,

remembering the weight of a name

that no longer answers.

The rose’s scent fades, and the child does not look up,

as if the world beyond the trees

is dust, and dust alone.