Winter

The soap you said reminded you of home.
I wash my body with it because it is haunted.
I don’t sense death, only a thing unlived.
Downstairs, outside, shadows are trapped
in the garden between the azaleas and the brick wall.
Winter makes everything a weed.
We were together when you were gone.
We drove to the fair in the city that day.
We held hands while their mirrors disfigured us.
For a split-second we never left.
The sun, that morning, on the snow,
was at home.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.