She Takes Us

No good comes of it,
and ensorcelled,
our mouths grow full.

Color went
with the sun,
and we grow

dry and brittle
as weeds,
shaken, drifting wind.

A slow progress
of ice
takes us unawares.

Sky speaks snow
we beat back
from the door,

but grow yet colder
in the blood
where you run.

And we let her
take us —
fiery faces that recede

into the crackling
of boots on snow.
Each of us an arrow,

poorly aimed.
Still,
I would submit

and suffer
your friendship,
if you could bear up

under the weight —
this mean secret
of my emptiness —

footprints
crossing
footprints

astride the icy hill.
Take it all
in every taken time.

Kick the compass
down the day
to dreaming

then map
the road back
toward home.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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