Winter Branches

April 29, 2017




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  

and shuddered,

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.

and I,

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.

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