It is the season of frozen
water-tears of sleet, tears
of snow, hail of grief.
Some plants die
and leave their seeds,
so it is with you and me.
I lie dormant, almost dead
these glacial mornings
in bed. I brought you pudding
during the fall, on the vermilion border
of your lips I saw it
cling-every detail of your being
noticed, the downward twist
of fingernails, eyelids thin and luminous.
The last time we touched, someone
had shut them. I tried to reach past
your fading surface,
to the stopped warm heart I spoke.
Mother. Please. Mother.
(mother still mother
never more
quiet) I’ll bring you back
with my pen, no matter
how cold my worn-out hand.
Frigid and glum in this icy
life, I’ll try like the larch
to ignore the brute indifference
of the blank winter sun-
the punch of existence.
How chilling it is
with me here and you there.
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