A Snowstorm

Trees here,

in winter’s grasp,

expand white on white until the darkness comes.

Pine and maple,

decades in the space between.

Beyond the window, trees lie torpid.

Twisting.

Bare.

Dusklight on my alabaster skin,

and within the hour a storm moves in,

so coats the sod in impassivity.

 

Silence settles,

and bones won’t rattle here.

Despite trees as gaunt as skeletons.

Even as the wind moves between them,

there is secrecy.  

 

Voices at the forest’s edge,

anesthetize and draw me in,

writing love letters on the surface of my skin.

 

As I tear away,

as the nighttime comes,

both bodies naked and infalling in the dark,

a sense of silence overwhelms,

as if noise could consume us whole.

 

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