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.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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