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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 














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