The way things seemed
better when
I knew you.

How the breeze would come
when I needed it as a
warm friend
or gentle push
to get me on my feet and
leave me with purpose.

And dusk would
curl and twist
into the messy splashes of dawn
with our laughter hung in the glossy sky
tucked between stars
in a time and a place
where the night and day could meet.

I'll always think of you most
when the fire
cracks and stirs itself back to
life
the way you burned yourself
into mine.

That cold, harsh,
February rain slashes against
the panes of glass in my bedside window.

The sycamore tree in the front yard
with it's thick lashes,
groaning,
rattling,
has chased away the coo of the owl.

I've grown used to it's lullaby
and, as I drift off,
I worry a tired thought:
will he come back?

I remember the weekends away—
I thought nothing of them until I grew older
and understood—
you needed time
together
or for yourself.

He was preparing
himself, I imagine, to
accept
that long night
on the horizon.

I think of the hills in the
countryside where I would stay;
quick,
sudden, drops
from their glossy tops
to the bottom
near a mop of thorn and itch.

How I would stand at the top
and then fall,
catching my feet beneath me
at the last moment
and kick my feet
to race my fall and keep composure—

and I never won,
ending up atop the
long,
uncut,
splinters of grass that tangled
and intertwined each blade
into a cool bed of green over
the pale earth

and it would tickle
at the nape of my neck as I’d wonder
and think to move
but could not possess the will
to escape
the meaninglessness—
this memory
where the air is still fresh
and I am content.

I woke up to the falling snow
    it is gentle and quiet
        as if it holds the breath of the world

hostage with heavy silence
    twirling and swaying, so
        trance-like in the dance

unsure of whether to
    rest crystal droplets upon
       the branches or

to settle and expand into a sea
    of glistening winter white—
        reflecting ribbons of early light that

crash through the pale branches
    of the still sleeping trees
        in the distance

I can see the sparkle of
    their halos standing out against
        a wisp of clouds.

A story is written
into the sheets of the trembling bed

until the sunlight drips off of us
and we go restlessly

off into the haze of midnight
unaware of the drum of thunder

and of the rain
singing its chorus overhead.

We walked and walked
along the trail
the ground made wet
by mist
and morning chill.

The limbs of oak and maple trees
stretched their shadow—
a collage of red and orange leaves
settled beneath our feet.

October whispered soft spirits over us.