Listening to the echo of death whip through the skeletal fingers of the trees,

The moon kisses the ice

footsteps melt the snow with Heat from too many paces forward and back

A woman worn through

weighted with the winter clouds

whose underbellies have been stained putrid orange from city lights

Bone shows through from injuriously unkempt, dervish thoughts

There is an unaccountable anguish that accompanies deception of heart,

And the prolonged resistance to commitment

innocence ravaged against a scabrous milestone

a certain kind of loss that cannot be measured

or undone

This is not one person’s pain.

And over time this is not just paroxysm or twinge

But palpable catches on the breath

Tattoos on blood cells

Muscle memory

There is an icy difference between the woman wallowing in scorn

And the woman walking barefoot in the snow,

Ruminating on the pieces that will never grow back.

For one is releasing into the cradle of hypothermia

While the other is trudging forward regardless of numbed appendages.

We caught each other’s tears today

In the basins of our beauty that remain.

It’s as if we were pouring the droplets back and forth between our hearts’ vessels

Amalgamating and recycling grief and strength

into a resplendent alloy.

We are not lost

If only we can coat ourselves in armor made of this.

The death of puerile hopes will always echo dully in our ribcages

yet we can sing replies to strengthen our resolve.

Each day it may be less work

tilling frozen soil.