walking beside a creek
in december, the black ice
windy with leaves.
beeches fall on each other,
rubbing to bone last summer’s
thick white skin.
my hands are empty
and will not be still.
walking beside a creek
in december, the black ice
windy with leaves.
beeches fall on each other,
rubbing to bone last summer’s
thick white skin.
my hands are empty
and will not be still.
