I found this scribbled on the back of an application from years ago. It's my handwriting, but I have no recollection of ever writing it: A girl's heart is broken. "Slow down!" they call after her, as the ribbon fell from her hair. Leaping from stump to stone, the path behind she left it long ago. She tells herself she's flying. She croons, she crows and now the sun is dying. There's still time she says for one more song, but she's been gone for far too long. And as the light begins to fade she wonders why she's all alone. "Where have they all gone, these friends of mine? Why have they all left me? Don't they know a girl must have her time to grow? A girl must run and croon and crow." But in that moment she never stops - not one to think of what she's lost. She looks ahead as darkness gathers, never fearing what she'll find. A forest full of nothing left behind.

It’s perhaps appropriate That the closest we ever come to knowing a person Is when we grieve at their loss. At last a blessed intimacy breaks Over the pages of my book In hot, sea-salt tears. I never knew you, and I never could. A task too great for anyone bound as we are to time Like slaves to the field Or saints to the slaughter.   Years later, When the memories of your last days continue to haunt me, I count myself lucky. I never said goodbye, So maybe it's fitting that you never left me. If I’m blessed with grandchildren of my own, Will the pain of this loss echo also in their hearts, And the hearts of those that follow? I can only hope for their sake it does. What is so broken in us That we spend our days Bleeding over the things we’ve already lost?

The pale pre-dawn sky fractures along the horizon And the heavens spill their persimmon hues over the frost-glazed landscape. Even while leaves have long fallen, The fruit trees are flush with the gospel of birds. The apple tree flutters with an unfelt gale As the morning breathes with a new kind of life. Like the ashen streets of Pompeii, the garden lays frozen in time. Frost fingers reach greedily across the pond And snowdrops sing like crystal bells. Fog retreats from my bedroom window And the warm smell of orange peel and clove urges the day to begin.