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.