The Hierarchy of Winter

A love poem that you used to know

Surfaces from the unfathomable depths,

A line here, in the winding, interminable grocery line

On a cold and windy October afternoon;

A stanza there, in the park watching the hierarchy of winter,

The squirrels frantically amassing their hoards;

A word or two flashing before your eyes

In the moment you swerve into oncoming traffic,

A tragedy written out in the screeching of tires

And the spinning of a wheel,

Capacious as the sea –

And then you are no more.


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A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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