I found myself stitched
on the inside of winter’s bone,
like an inscription carefully woven into a worn childhood sweater.
The dirt on the ground
read like letters from two, long, lost, lovers;
weathered, hardly legible,
a memory of hidden secrets
and an old life.
Etch your story into the dirt,
and watch the river fade it away.
I used to know where our footsteps stopped,
but the river constantly wept.
That’s the problem
with that small border
Where dirt meets river.
There was never a clear distinction between
what is, and what isn’t.
The land will always be land
The small lines, footprints, gritty dirt
will always be dirt.
We will never be able to compete
with Mother Nature.
These things weren’t meant to last.
I found my love stitched
in the arctic winds
that seep deep into my bones;
in the loss of sleep i find
that I cannot fix this fracture.
