ache of the branch against the sky
in the season of no leaves.
oh fly you will from the moment still
you gazed upon a glazing universe.
winter is here, you sang to yourself again
with your absurd little twig of holly;
your rose mittens you keep losing.
this is the park in winter
where you went in your twenties.
and now the swings glide on their own
and creak with the ice.
and the wind whispers to you and crackles
the pine needles, sifting through
all this silver, you murmur
through your tears;
then earth, remembers you
mary angela douglas 19 june 2016