Cold as Frost
 
Frost paints pretty patterns on the windows,
ices over the world outside. Deeper
into covers and pillows, she burrows
to hide from memories, chase them away.
Counting calendar days is a habit;
ignoring mile-markers an effort.
 
This is the evening one came home; the day
one left. How quickly did he cross over
the edge of the line – to the other side?
 
None of the dates and times are recorded
anywhere save inside her heart and mind;
she can’t erase the pain, although she’s tried.
 
In the season of joy – forgiveness – hope,
sorrow settles around her, cold as frost.

 
Siobhan
12/11/09

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