Winter

Winter is a sigh,
a surrender
a secret whispered in
the creak of trees,
bones that bend
and sometimes break
in the breeze.

She shuffles in
On her walker,
Carried by the scent
Of burnt hearths
And hearts that
No longer quicken
At the promise
Of tomorrow

She sleeps
later every year
And fades
Like photographs
Too long in the sun

Each memory
A blow, the trail
Of a tear that’s
Forgotten why
It’s crying.

~ Elodie Pritchartt, October 29, 2014