We were the winter trees
in chill mist and dank,
close as glass to drizzle.
I remember your hand
settling around the page
under the pillow
and between days.
We drank hot tea and talked.
Deep thoughts and serious,
we laughed at society
and our lack of place.
The equinox and new leaves
dot a weft of twigs and stems;
fringe the mist with promise.
How impossible
being this age
and never pledged.
Circumstances force us
to be the forest.
We come to a place
where memories rest.
A stone throat speaks
the heart’s silence.
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