Thanks to kandinskythgreat, penwriter95, The Dragon Riders, and Scision for reviewing. Here comes the next poem!
By the cooling
embers
of the fireplace
in the
Gryffindor common
room,
Harry's told me all
he knows about
you,
and though
perhaps it's
odd,
talking to a
dead woman like
this,
this
is how I
see things
between us:
To me, we
are like
an apple
tree. Your eyes are
green
and mine
are
hazel, greenish-brown,
that makes
up
the tree trunk
and the leaves.
Red hair makes
up apples,
young and fresh,
for I am
still,
and you died so.
But then,
death
rots and
eats away. So does
our tree
bear apples
freshly
red or wormy
brown?
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