The Path
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.