I often sing of our Winter,
clouds of smoke sail above the heads of angels,
I often recall what we were,
in our stunted emotional drawl.
You, swollen, dense and heavy, and I
seep as molasses into the crevasses
of set resolves to remain who we are.
We were a we -
are - at least when a writer needs a muse,
at least when a song lifts from my throat
and chokes out joy
on solely minor notes.
Folk was made for that,
weathered bays, worn-through shoes, fallen leaves, salted ducts,
quietness and wailing.
I often sing of our Winter
of how devout we'd have been,
if we were, as then - now,
of how we would find the worst of each other,
often wonder whether we'd have found any good.