Improv Post One Week Two

This is an improv of the poem "In Memory of W.B. Yeats" by W.H. Auden.
The aspect of this piece that drew me to improving was the way that Auden did his form: the first part of the poem was free verse the second part of the poem was unrhymed hexameter and the last part was the eight beat rhyming couplets. I also really liked some of the lines from the poem: "but in the importance and noise of tomorrow," and "follow, poet." I wanted to grasp the idea that this person was going to be missed, without coming right out and saying "I'm gonna miss them so much." So here we go: An Elegy

She melted with the white
of winter, bloomed with spring:
tulips purpled as the brook bubbled
with the hysteria of silence.
The day she died was quiet.

Covered in blankets, like the rose
bushes outside her brick house, the
squirrels chewed on stored acorns while
the wind sang mourning through the branches
and feathers in the sky.

I could hear a wail from Haiti:
a cold, bone chilling squeal like something
from the cat under her bed. A black, white pawed
claw bats at the sky as we sit, roaring
like this feline wants to on the inside.

But in the importance and noise of tomorrow,
we sit in silence of what lies
unpublished on the desk, flipping in the wind.
She dances in on the words, floating, singing,
laughing at something I can't see.

The day she died was quieter than the rain she
loved. She'd run out and let it soak into her lines
and words and speech. Rapunzel locks puffed like the fish,
always a hairbrush and pen: pocketed 
now, drawered and dust covered, decayed like her. Men
spawned her little children, protected with press 
of key, now men strive to be children-keys only
make words not meaning. Words down a page survived us
all as we pump up our biceps in a gym with
the smell of testosterone and hopelessness, an
futile attempt at a better version of me.

A version she found long ago
in a field outside as we blew
dandelions into never
and she spoke how cheesy we were.

Like Italy, scorched and starved and 
broke, Sydney followed a command
of her own. Follow poet, meet
in the rainstorms of your two feet.

Tread lightly like she, but with faith
that what could be must fill with grace
as she's placed into the silent ground
fill the Earth with glorious sound.