Cold creeps into street stones
as warm bones watch
ice encrust
a puddle of must,
gut flood, grime.
Ghosts.
Time lives
inside field mice underfoot,
in dessicant grain
and freesia in January.
I find an absence of malice in hail,
even as it wounds tiny paws,
dampens bran,
can find no
death thought
in the blooms it breaks.
Cold steeps in deep ruts
found around my torso
dirt rinses the sun
and stuns glasses.
Still no spite
in mighty wind,
in altered weather.
Ghosts,
our legacy
have left that to us.
