Two feet of snow

 

There are no openings to heartaches

except that you may find stains of blood

and pieces of torn flesh and skin,

Hereabouts.

 

In some unseen terrain of the mind

there are only trees, with their giant grey barks

and somber shadows, silent and sighing.

And the wind meandering through the leaves

with its Concierto de Aranjuez.

 

How green was the tree? Someday they will ask.

Like the borders of Southern Chile?

Like the fever trees of Africa

running through its limbs?

Sadly there will be no answers now and herearounds,

except patagonias extending from the tip of the feet

and absences

of left overs from yesterdays,

that I can lay down for some vagabond cat.