winter trees lean down
ice-laden branches. this frost
haunts my finger-tips.
frostbit, the age-old
ache buries into the bone.
it melts, but does not thaw.
no footsteps marr the
ground on which we walk. i am
the first to cross this path.
black rook, stark against
the muted sky. it does not
remember the rest.
a leaf that falls and
crumbles to the ground. footsteps
crush all that is left.
december pearls touched,
covered our empty stage. leaves,
hidden beneath these
rocks, these well-worn stones.
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