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by: Sandra Perigo

The cold grasps at what is left of my heart;

Shreds of it left frozen at km 175
Where only I have ever seen
The grace and magnificence of a Warrior vaulting wind fallen trees,
Rifle raised on high, loaded with cartridges eager to find their mark on a wolf or three,
Locks of hair flowing in a tangled stream behind him.
The pitch of their cries reflects the instinct that their demise has been met.

Pieces of it spread among the words skipping from his lips
In the evenings,
As he scours the unblemished pages to share the passage of the day.
Books he has studied and collected from before his time,
Kept in specific shelves along with belongings all in pristine condition.

Most of it gone to the graves of those he loves and cares for
With the same attention he treats his possessions.

My love for him lies listless between the tangle of trees he floats across,
Between the pages of the books on his shelves,
Between the soil and ashes filling the voids of earth he has warmed in preparation of final resting places.
It travels no further,
Does not reach the sunlight
Is nurtured by nothing.

Until Spring…