Haven

The path from Eckhart to the Reynolds club,
a small desolate snowbed that others rushed past
while I was trying to be a tree,
skeletal. And the snow flew everywhere,
into my eyes.
Into my mouth, into my ears,
but I remain immobile, nailed, content with
my arms, those lifeless branches in the air.
My fingers curl stiffly toward my palms,
as if wanting to be close to me.

But these fingers lie,
the tips purple, then
turning grey,
thread away from me first,
and soon my entirety
will be woven into the bitter winter sky.


Copyright © 2005 by HrJ