... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poetry ...

Cold is coming

in late August,
beneath my family Oak
she pledged her
soul to mine. her whispers
i found in creaking
branches. another Winter long
gone, another hastily approaching-

buried in the muggy heat
sleeps the chill of her heart,
her gelid blood seeps beneath
the skin of the wind
in veins of October
muscadine, in the
juicy tendrils of
the Autumn scuppernong
dripping down the edges
of her perfect smile.

we both know Cold is coming
and like our tree, we shall shed the
foliage of the past – we shall
die in acorn graves, resting
comfortably in our coppice quilt
until Spring.

when all things are made new.

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