Not long ago, winter's prime of light and fires Led to chimneys smoking. It stayed the ice That crowded around the window’s edge, sneaking to steal the warmth which always Waited at the door. Apples roasted for the pie as Butter melted, the sweetness rising with the scent That whispered, stay...still...see...stay. Heart thundered at chopping block mutters. Both Clung together as animal-bound hands reach to tear Apart what iron could not. A brother's craft.
Harvest gave her soiled bounty to heal All she knew winter would burn in time To come. We worked the ground to the bare of both Our bones, and she has watched us well; gifting Her strength in wheat and hearty barley to Face the ash of winter's so-called mercy. I see the gray-once-red bush of thorns. Does it remember the hummingbird? It flew on children's laughter.
I will not want as much as they, the constant Ones, who always stay and cry and laugh and Die with the land that gave them life. But now they cry for me too, the changing one. Discontented by the roast we killed, or the land that raises sage, juniper, and those crab apples That mother always wished to make into jam.
I am a sail torn by starboard fair of Grass unseen and muses unsearched, harvests Unmet for my heart to ponder; yet port With garden memoirs and soiled doors Planted in me. If roots of trees are not touched by The frost, why am I so cold? The tallest trees die From the top down. They stay…still…see…stay.