when Winter dies, so do i.
prickly, gray tree bones stretch
towards a sun drenched sky.
the blue above illuminates
the brown below; shameful
and sacred sortilege.
when they lay me down, embalmed
and well-dressed, will i bother to mind
such a surreal day? from floating
rafters above? or when my cords are
finally loosed, will i run with abandon
under all the naked trees?
does Winter even happen in Heaven?