Seasoning

If silence and solitude were to have weight
they’d account for these hills, held fast in place.
Which draw a chill from this glaucous sky,
into fleeting cold winds, pulling tears from my eyes.

Chimney smoke mingles above the roof tops,
and can be smelled across empty playground lots.
A stolid chill dons a winters dusk shroud,
as the sun slips away behind dull distant clouds.

As they stew over secret recipes
These families are conjuring remedies
which season more deeply in winters love
so thicker runs the courses of blood.

Bare tree limbs reach up as dead hands on a clock.
Near a merry-go-round, hunkered down like bedrock.
Ruts from the rails of a Radio Flyer
Trail a lone child’s footprints, both frozen in mire.

As I shiver alone in my questioning state
Unsecured and open swings a gait.
From unseen origins they fall from the sky,
these snowflakes that soften with tears in my eyes.

I’m not sure if ever, or otherwise when
our journeys will deliver us convergent friends.
But the lessons we harvest from each seasons end
Make for savory spices when the next one begins.

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