Sun pale like the down on your face
almost imperceptible: glancing off tree bark
hovering in cool strip skipping
through frosted woods.

Dead leaves underfoot
heart in hibernating peace
gone to a place where nothing moves
locked in a sepulchre far from here.

Last night I thought I’d write
but quickly realized (as the old moon
stared through blank black space)
yes I quickly realized there’s nothing there.

Sun pale like a young child’s hair
glancing off dead things as if warmth
had never been as if there wasn’t
a ‘’you and me’’

I watched it stroke the trees
wondering if next year
I’d still be sitting here remembering
the way it might have been

before the winter claimed us.