You were growing warm in the tongues of spring
and I was soft.
You wove roots in between my fingertips
and planted yourself
on ground I hadn’t known
could bear
fruit.

But summer was hot
and I was dry.
So we struck
stone against stone, breathed
ashes onto skin
and let settle
into fossil.

We fell back in heaps
Of leaves that scattered
my body, no matter how softly
you brushed them off.
The bramble said to the tree
“If in truth”
and I tangled
myself to shield you
from a sun
I knew would cease
to burn.

Then the cold changed your face.
And I was giving you my warmth
to keep you from growing
frigid and icing
over.

When it all went dark,
I reached my fingertips
to trace the grain
of your forehead
and when I opened
my eyes it writhed
like snakes
that were not mine
to charm anymore.

And then the Light
was waking up the face
next to mine. And the birds
were whispering
softer than I could ever be.
You were growing warm.
And I was stone.