Blogging & Poems, My Poems

At Confessions

There comes a time
when the trees

begin
to trade places.

A woman spirals

through limbs, the nearby
depths of a lake –

You remember the day

when you explained to her
how you wanted

to wait for
a winter

wedding –

You dug up
the charcoal

of leftover
flowers and leaves,

the tree limbs, ad mortem,

and laid them
over the snow.

You watched her hair
darken

and disappear.

You stopped digging

when you finally
hit water.

You stopped digging

when you realized
tree limbs turn

to frozen earth.

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