The churn throws itself away from the sun.
We light fires to burn our autumnal dead; in the
space of naked mourning, black arms crack with cold.
I wander out on a short tether, seeking scents the cold
has patiently slaughtered. Nights unfurl their rugs over the sun.
Waiting for a kiss of snow, camellia buds wither on the
Stem. Winter and Ruin go a’walking, picking the
last still marks of our temperance. Ruin paints her face with cold.
Winter will only love her for a time; he is chased by the sun.
Their suns are the clear eyes of snow; I seek what their cold has taken.