Her ears and hair are scented by the firs;
Her shadow warps across the moonlit snow.
The story she would tell him is not hers
Although her breath’s ghost meets his in their flow.
Still as the ivory face carved on her clasp,
She feels her mother pulsing in her feet.
He sees the house her sorrow cannot grasp
Whose story surges now where two streams meet.
The lichen on the pines absorb the light;
She sucks the moment’s silence to her bones.
The wind’s rasp on the stream prolongs the night
To swirl her story with the clack of stones.
She strikes the frozen clasp against his cheek;
Her mother’s image penetrates his skin.
One window in her house inhales to speak;
Her clenched lungs strain to let the past begin.
Inside the house, like wind, two low moans start.
He grabs the clasp and hurls it in the stream.
Her mother stabs her father in the heart.
An owl flaps from the fir, trailing its scream.
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