the kettle begins to whisper
it is morning and it groans
to life as if against its will
my cat nudges my leg
‘i am here’
it seems to says
with no demands on me
a frost has settled
it covers the world
in crystals that flicker
in the shifting morning light
i am torn between
joy and heartache
between running towards
and running away
the jeremiah of the past
is leaving
i am not sure
how to say goodbye
i want to make amends
i want to wrap you up
and tell you of the pain
i was going through
the pain that was the beginning
of my transformation
i want to bring you with me
to carry you over
the jeremiah of the past
fades each morning
fades like the frost crystals
in the shifting morning sun
there is such joy here
in this new world
but the heartache
has followed me
perhaps it will
follow me always
into every new jeremiah

the white night-shirt
in my sock drawer
no longer carries
your scent
when it did
i always found
it hard to describe
the smell
of the lacy
garment
the scent was not only
of perfume
but of a body
not only of a
body but of a soul
a soul that
held me in such a way
i wanted so desperately
to keep the smell
wrapped up within the
fibers
wound tightly into the
silken threads
but it didn’t hold
try as i might
it didn’t hold
now winter has arrived
and the delicate cloth
is the color of the snow
and lost within
the bleakness
of memory

in the first
light of
dawn
the trees
shed snow
a gentle wind
has taken it
i stand
and watch
it will
never be
such
trying to
hold
the fresh snow
against the
wind
i know
this and
i believe you
do too
you can’t
quiver
now
with arms
like branches
those of
another tree

there is a
field
the crops passed
many seasons
ago
here and there
saplings have
sprouted
some thick
with seasoned
bark
from many
winters
around the field
is a stone
wall
it is
crumbling
and lost among
moss
and bramble
and small trees
that have found
their way
to the light
shooting up around
the stones
woven amongst the
rocks
hanging from
rotting
fence posts
and tangled up
in the
long grass
is rusted
barbed wire
camouflaged
against its
surroundings
it catches clothing
and
snags skin
leaving rust stained
lines
within flesh
as a
reminder
of its presence
the field is
all but
inaccesible
one can only
look on
through the various
seasons
and wonder about
the crops
that were once
planted
there many years
ago
one can only
look on
at the trees
that have leapt
up now
left
to their own
way
to their own will
without plow
or foot
to disrupt
them