
the earth
these days
is iron hard,
roots locked
in a chrysalis
of churned mud.
frozen to jagged froth,
it breaks beneath boots
with the crunch of bones grinding.
beneath frostbitten fingers of clasping limbs,
tangled in blackberry briars blown barren,
drifted deep against dark boles
in the flotsam of frost
the old question waits,
a leviathan suspended
in gelatinous dreams—
what if this time
the weary sun
averts her face
and never
returns?