we walk the path to the spring
where the waters come constant
from the ground unfreezing
warm enough for duckweed to thrive
even in blue winter,
deep with snow.

the air holds few sounds,
the snap and tumble of tree limb,
river's crashing iced sheets,
the click and kew of the junco,
wind, amplified one hundred fold
razor sharp in the cold.

how does the waters know
who told it; here.
it's here that you will rise,
at the end of a path in a small cleft,
said by locals to be the gathering
place of the ancients, the fairies
and the dead who died before their time?

we come to the spring and beside it
as deep in the snow
as we are in its mysteries,
we become a part of the story
reassured that the promise
of the thaw is as constant
as the coming march sun
and the ever flowing water
at our feet.

started the day in disparate paces
clustered in a rash
Things began.
Disconcerting reality stroke.
None of us had a way out.
I frowned. I trembled.
It’s getting colder outside.

words coagulated in framed narratives
where I hardly find a way in,
though didn’t put down conversing with them;
I hear their voices resounded
tensions as time terminated.
Scrambled in silence,
It's getting colder inside.

I thought your eyes were warm like
the sun, but it was a pleasant lie;
you took all the heat and kindness of those
around you, pretended it was yours
until there was nothing left but bitter cold
and a line of broken hearts.

No matter how your head fell on my shoulder,
No matter how your hand searched for mine,
Asking me to hold it in yours-
As the weather grew colder,
You grew colder too.

I swore I wouldn’t get attached.
So what am I doing here, late at night,
Waiting for your call?

Was it just a  convenience?
Had we been running on rented time?

the sickness has claimed me
the plague has overtaken my body
aches and pains
raw and runny nose
bedridden and exhausted
this night may be my last