if only the sky.

some grey mornings

the years are a 
withered burden,

lost instructions
from a jilted, frozen

atmosphere

wet snow piled on

the roof, a blanket

over every story

their hands holding,

then letting go

tender skin clinging

tightly to muscle,

membrane, and bone

the resilient are

solitary, damp soil

thudding on the coffin

though the stars,

remain an ethereal

tutorial, drifting

across the sky

© 1.9.2024 heather brager