That winter, after you left,
I would reach out and clutch
cold sheets and empty air –
I imagined that I still had life inside,
even if it was buried deep and
it seemed that you left me hollow.
They stood outside my window with
frosted bark armored against the biting wind
scraping against the frozen glass.
I imagined live green burrowed beneath the winter brown
and buds for new leaves tucked in until spring
as the branches creaked and tangled together.
I wondered what secrets they held,
heard only in hushed tones long after I’d fallen asleep.
Did they speak of you and me?
Of how we were
how I was suffering?
Or did they speak of the
hopeful glances cast out the window,
Endlessly waiting - for spring
For a new beginning
For freedom from the
brambles of you -
The deep, painful thorns
Scarring my arteries and lungs?
Winter always turns to spring
and crisp brown would be warm again,
Leaves would blossom,
Life emerging at last.
I, too, would shed my winter frost
and be new.
About the author: Kate is a writer, wife, mom of two pups and a full-time RVer. She has experienced loss and grief. Kate has found healing through her writing.