2014-12-27 12.09.15

If I could winter well, fling swirls of snow
across the trodden mulch of this scabbed year,
the green tomatoes harvested, the slow
decomposition of our summer into fur
of fungus well advanced; swing sprays of frost
across your windows, darkening their shade
until your total store is absence;
if I stripped leaves till your branches, criss-crossed
against a sullen sky, reduced to crude
scratches and charcoal what was once our essence;
if I hung like light in a dying beech,
would you dream a resurrection? Would we speak?

This poem has also appeared on the Ground poetry website

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