where the writers are
The Seasons

and so it’s

winter here you

say as

you stammer

down the

stairs

can’t you

tell by

the way the

birds hold

their breath

as they fall from

a blanket of

clouds  where you

nest hugely like

daybreak on

the face of

a frozen lake. 

and so it’s spring

as you

show me

how to fly

as if

mortality

is nobody’s

business but

my own.  

when we

find ourselves

in record

heat  still I

reach inside

those parts of

you  lean

from night like

a sparrow

filthy with rain  and

carry your scent from

branch to

branch all summer long.