Winter Sun
The world is ravaged today.
Snow sits smug on the ground
and Pennsylvania chatters with its rises and falls.
Your voice drips melting icicles,
but we are all just chasing the wind
which teases you with a brush of your hair.
Your face is a wide open plain.
I weep for your lost breaths --
puffs of cold air their only memorial
as you paint hills on my face
the blue of a midnight sky.
You took out all my bones;
built us both a house.
Now I listen to their hum in the night.
We are withered panels of wood
clasped together as we pull apart.
Copyright © Sam Mayhue | Year Posted 2011
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