The End of It

After it all she goes away.  The night

wind is a wild horse bucking as a heart

full of anxiety. A pale blonde—that golden

plant—simply stood in a place

she had no business being, in

front of a door.  The thought of who was behind

the lock is life-times away. Knocking on that

forbidden form made her tremble. Speaking softly

to herself as if he could hear her, Distant you,

hold me in your arms, listen to the howling in the air

made of horses racing away from this place.  Living

and dying in her head, she wrings her hands

against the cold knowing the warmth of home exists

just beyond that door.  She quivers at the glass pane,

the dead tree shaped to shut out the world.  The struggle

she faces is harsh, looking at that threshold

she isn’t permitted to pass with tired eyes.  Catching

the muffled laughter beyond the brick and mortar of a house

that isn’t hers, it rises in the sky seeking open air to a life

that has been locked for so long.  Her achy withering hands

slide into the pockets of her wool coat, a deep breath pricks her

lungs with shards of ice, each footfall leading her away

from desire and fear of rejection from a rare love.  The wind whips

her back with lashes of frigid.  Snow drifts over the path

she leaves as she walks away.   Moistness on her face

make her golden locks freeze to frostbit skin longing

to be touched for so long.  Locks she has grown for someone

who will never see the enduring time

it takes to grow.  In the blister of the northern February night

there is no evidence of any path from a woman wandering

alone in the dark.  With his brow on her brow, his mouth on her

mouth, that could warm everything, but the wind doesn’t

pass, so she knows something else instead.  Bitter

as bitter ever gets, the galloping wind takes her away.

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2 Comments

  1. Another thought provoking glimpse of life and desire.

  2. nicely composed


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