Go in good faith
down that charred road
where holy mist
cusps day in feathered glove
the porcelain eyes of hills pay obedience to mauve cloud
trees taller than sound break through
smudges of dream wave in memoriam, shuttering day
je ne sais pas aimer sans toi. Je ne sais pas comment me passer de toi.
We speak in furled tongues our inner most thoughts
leaving confessionals on mossy rocks and the lay of light rain
full with sleep, the direction lost in tug of war with blackening ice
they slip beneath against hush of snow
covering our tracks with blanched fingers of ice.
We weep with everything but tears.