The Path

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November.

The sky is
the color
Of freezer ice.

The woods
The path
You
Me
And an impossibly happy dog

Collars are alert
Cheeks are claret red
Hands are rolled in pockets
Like sonogram babies

Winter boots 
Scrape through leaves that are
scattered like
propaganda
On a small country of pine cones

You

Ahead of me

Heads down

Breathing like horses

We are still attached.

You and I

The tether of heartbeats
Even though 
We both know
That it’s over

Every step forward 
is a giant leap
Towards 
a million miles away.

There is so much to be said 
when there is nothing left to say.

And so
We let silence
Have the last word.

















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