The forecast looks like

a death-defying leap into

an unanswerable question.

Monday’s heaving footballs

force the path to deepen as it narrows,

the air a heavy burden,

carrying yesterday’s disappointments

as though they were more precious

than the fool’s gold of sentiment

we use to barter with the gods.

We are legion in our confusion,

voicing theories and forming prayers

into mournful shapes on the tongue,

rolled between hands otherwise useless

but decorative as they flick the light

around us up and away.

Embracing a wrinkle in

the fabric of time, stretched

loosely and carelessly

as if we could hold onto

invincible youth forever.

I remember laughing

at winter’s chill before

it took the shape of me

and you in a still life of blue.

Maybe it was yesterday or

maybe it has yet to be,

but relief is in your hands.

May we be wise enough

to loosen our grip.

“We” have satellites

that can see inside my underwear drawer,

technology to witness

new galaxies being born,

and devices to record every waking thought,

but I cannot seem to find

my place and I do not think

I will be able to get away.

Winter blue swirls through branches,

empty but not brittle.

Wind makes a mark like a love bite on bark;

I tighten my scarf

watching steamy breath spread

across the windowpane,

like inkblots like dragons like icicles

almost ready to give way to hyacinth.