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.
