winter is a lonely bitch



The snow won't cease hassling the inhabitants of our town.

There's not a soul to thank or talk to. The powerlines

are down. The church urn robbed my proper burial.

Why can't they mark my streaking embers now,

mingled in the icy air, like glints of fireflies?

I spent a hundred years today shivering in a stand

of birches, sitting on the snow. With streaming

blackberry eyes, I finally trudged the cold pine

ridges all the way to Pleasant Street, shouldering

my shade. There I paused outside her house, waiting.

There comes a time for breaking, even for the deceased.

I've got my mission. I shall be released.