It’s not so much the season but
these shadows of the past, stark
negatives to stare at the moment to.
The picture perfect abstract always
uneasy on the skin, a wind at once
too cold and too familiar, tomorrow
spilling down the stairs. So
the days beckon, so the days warn,
corridors to stumble down hinting
at the unseen, a shadow heavy
cast from a dream forewarning.
One like the next, but next all
the same, this measure of
root and reach. Winter giving way
green by green, it’s touch
abrupt and heavy in this flesh.