Something in my hands gave way
like the quivering branches
against my window,
their cold fingers
brittle and breaking.
What came of it?
A winter without a coat,
a wood without trees.
I stood in the courtyard and
listened to the mourning doves
cry in the early dawn light
pink like sadness.
An empty cigarette box
and the crisp leaves
puddling round my feet
in tawny auburns and
dead shades of brown.
What came in the season's change?
A swift cracking along a fault line
the pushing and pulling
of the pieces inside me,
wedged against my ribcage
and lodged deep in my torso.
A trembling in my newly gloved hands
and my feet are too small
in their boots
it came as no surprise that
as everything died
a great shift rocked
my body,
and put my soul somewhere else
for the winter months
to come.
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