winter is not sad,
just empty
confused
it hangs as a pause,
a demented comma that catches
in teeth
where words huddle in prayer.
in this dark cavern of mouth,
this church so like the moon,
its hymns both
beautiful and stark,
we ask a real lady
how to wear those traits with grace
while filled with passion.
or does she also wait for flowers,
for colourful light to thaw from tongue
and warmth to breathe limbs fearless
enough to fall.
to fall
beyond a heavy sky.
at night, I read the clouds
to my other self,
dark prophecies, like those that Emily
foretold. I wonder, if like hers, ours
are inevitable,
or whether a faith in spring
is enough,
when everything is silence.
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