Woodworm (Perhaps Sarah)

Sarah, what shifts with the turning year
After all the ones you’ve left behind?
You’ve shaped me into one I fear,
A soul that’s darker and far less kind.

I prattle on with a thousand faces,
In a present wrapped in joyful scenes,
Of you who ignore me, I do the same,
A glance from the corn’r, your touch unseen.

In September it rained, as it always hath done,
Even under the umbrella I shattered in gale,
Yet one fleeting moment with you has stung
Far worse than long years of silent travail.

Sarah, what changes if I now stay mute,
If I wander afar or alter my face?
Sarah, how do I banish this woodworm?
Sarah, what would you want me to do?