The Cold, This Year

my sweetheart is the leaf-dust in my shoe,

with every step \grinding/ the road

fresh with tar, I’ll leave the bottoms of

my feet, marked

 

we both know trees are lighter

without their leaves

 

my hair auburn I follow

embers of the sun, leave my

body, white bark, cracking

beneath the clear blue sky

 

this year I’m flying too

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