It was coming

the cold front
and the complex weather

we returned
and the difficult loves were waiting

the long conversations
with pain in the final sentences

winter
gathering her parcel for the victory

stones, feathers, bottles
brimming with light

the troops
breaking in through the syllables

the empty cups
sitting before us in the snow

this
like all the others

a lullaby

a few grains of salt at the centre