I ate from 
a rotting bowl
writhing fruits
picked blindly 
by the crone
who set her children 
free into
the forest. 
They whisper
in the 
tangled brush,
snatching at 
the ankles 
of those who 
wander
from the path. 

Under grey 
skies
weeping their
first snow,
the crackling
branches twist in their 
death throes,
as wretched beasts
burrow through
their brittle bodies
to hide 
from the cold. 
And from the
children,
who play
at being 
wolves. 

The crone
speaks before the
hearth,
of little but the 
cold,
stirring her
filth over
heartless
flame. 
She says their
names, 
never quite 
smiling,
but weeps
softly
when she cannot 
remember
her own. 
I do not
tell her mine,
for fear 
she will one day
whisper it 
upon the 
embers. 

On my leave,
she called
once from the
darkened doorway,
a plea to a girl
she once knew,
answered by
mad laughter
from the
cold and dark,
where no 
footsteps
fall.