on figures again, dead winter coming back
to life-another solstice, another
pivot of the spirit. I wish I could
dwell on friendships.
There will be time,
folds of it when it's time for
our exiles to end you had said.
By then, the briar roses would have
transmogrified into sketches on
stark white rims. It would be too cold
to hold hands. We would have to walk
distanced in the freeze as our words
elude meanings now that
they cross heaving seas.