winter is thorns to scratch the skin
reopening old wounds
and bringing night early.

the creek in the park is nearly silent
dappled with dead leaves it flows icy into the dark
and joins an underground river where some things that it carries don't emerge,
never see the sunlight again.

she is a soft silhouette at the edge of the water.
her breathing is shallow, her hands going numb,
already raw from repeated scrubbing.

they don't miss her in the house yet, but they will soon.
she watches the sun sink behind the cold bones of the trees.
she quietly kneels to no one in the coming dusk,
a sinner lacking a redeemer.

when spiders die, their legs curl inward
and they clutch themselves
because they have no one else to hold.