Winds stalk me,
leaves tremble at my approach …
they are frightened
of the cold that follows.
In hushed, rustling whispers,
as I pass, they ask,
“Why is it you are not afraid?”

Un-answering, my feet march on,
trodding on their fallen brethren,
lovers, sisters, and friends ...
why bother with answers,
Would they understand?

How do you explain
to a shivering leaf
that the cold can’t be as bad
as waking up tomorrow,
finding it’s become
as lonely today as every day
is going to be,

what it’s like
finding the same empty bed,
with the same lone hair
stretched out across your pillow;
a single-stranded ghost,
the constant reminder
that all too often,

hearts,
like seasons …
share a kinship of change?