, , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The Aspen shivers, a little,

Its barefeet are covered in snow again,

Its white body exposed to a white sky.

I wonder if it is finally going to cry,

But it’s silent again, so I do.

The road shimmers again,

Like a road in heaven,

And they both contain death.

Ash Wednesday twenty twenty-three,

The day we lost you to morphine,

I arrived too late, down the icy road,

To ever hear my name again

From your mouth.

We had thought winter gone

But that was only an illusion,

One we wanted to believe,

After waiting so long for Sun.