It’s not quite winter but some trees
have given themselves over to the sleeping
season, bare branches brushing the sky,
or at least low-lying clouds.

I’d like to remember what drew me here
without the specter of sentiment
meant for someone else, because maybe
there’s no redundancy when a heart speaks.

I watch branches shivering in a winter storm
like lovers dancing around foggy notions
of freedom, purpose, and what will be.


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