A winter's day with frozen pipes,
and twin cut legs with all the gripes.

We harvest snow,
from
the
fallen
tree,
for tea.

The musky air inside holds all its dust,
suspended in a moment that will always break my heart.

These years have yawned away,
and I no longer play.
Oh the lies we spend on youth,
but not here,
not in your heyday,
your palace,
our genesis,
our kingdom of roots,
of where you end and I begin.

And while you sleep,
the spiders drink from your mouth,
as though there was never a drought,

But,
I know you will not flood me again.