like lead on paper the tactile scratch

of winter rakes her rusty back

 

dusting each day for fingerprints

our only hint that somewhere near

 

she hides. like water in the well

down under, below within

 

where the moist and rich grows

before making its appearance, sacheting

 

across a dark-soiled stage where

dirt crawls up her dress and

 

spreads her limbs, surrounds her cracking skin,

pushing until she explodes in climax of more

 

but for now, shivering haunches huddle

encased in dead and dying promises

 

night and dark have outwrestled

her brighter self, denying ascension

 

in her tomb of untouched virginity

she longs in unrequited passion

 

and, donning the satin sash of evening,

the smoky grey of night blows her tender kiss

 

to the shameless, bright day

and whispers, “adieu.”