A morning that should be bright by now,
But it is just a cacophony of wet leaves,
The back-braking ice marrying the road’s cheek,
And now I stand in it, but I never said goodbye,
How could I?
I was too busy holding on to the bones of a tree,
To get away from swirling drains of
Puddles, eleven stories deep,
Washing away into temporal streams,
My shoes are falling apart and
My mind is wringing wet.

-Jamie F. Nugent