the days have passed and
it is not the same here
this winter without you
beneath snow pregnant clouds
spreading grey across a
sheetglass sky from which
boreal winds bear down and
blow hard across the lake
held hostage by ice that snaps
the straw grass and cracks
underfoot with every step

as i approach your stone and
run my fingers across your
chiseled name remembering
our walks through October forests
loving the way your hair sparkled
like cinnamon through honey in
the sunlight and the way your
face ripened to a faded rose red
bitten by the crisp autumn air

but now cradled softly in the
silence of your absence i am
dreamless of any other live
because the knifeblade of your
memory has left me bruised and
broken in pieces on hard ground