By Lauren Sadler
Icicles form and drip
into shape. I snap one
off and let it melt in my hand.ler
Water slips through
my fingers and hits the snow.
I look up, to the avalanche
coming my way. Torrent
and languid, you make your
way. 67 miles, or 88 south.
No matter the direction,
or a thousand more, you’re in
the wind, and a season before.
Back inside, in the small of
night, I will only hear you, after light.
As I sulk, step by step,
I will see you, in remains of
candle wax left unmelted.
Could I survive such a
high temperature?
Out of the window, you are
a robin in the wild,
and a sparrow from north.
If I never see you through
my binoculars again, know that
all my love, is deep within.
Buried beneath the snow of York,
through the dark of winter and the
warmth of spring; I love you, from
before my birth and here until
the end of all things; I love you.
Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com
