the snow is only time clinging to your boot
trudging through the havens of your grave mute lips
plump in the weather 'round these parts
where the hearts bloom like troubled bees, and naive art.
while on farms, a dozen lambs
can't spell " slaughter "
with a " Baaa ".

but we have only so much snow.
red or white.
glistening on either side of the narrow mush
weaving through woods that remain nameless
but keep their twilight blushed.
we rush through the trivial adornments of the everyday
like heathens huffing ether,
but keep our scarecrows petrified of blackbirds
having heard the caw of wise raptors
in the fields of all flesh
and unnatural
disasters.

but a friend...

a friend
is a ghost running down
with you.

running... where your rivers have blood enough
to ***** the sun -
but never a
motive.

a ghost with the mind of a moon.

it wanders the shadow fields
of your distress
with your hand in a kissed
mirage.

and
you blunder together
so what comfort comes from sharing
doom or bliss -
comes without harm or hell.
a ghost running down,
comes up to you
and you both emerge
from low.

and Love never doubts
you do.