the wind is singing
a waterfall song
through the trees up
along this hillside
I am as alone here as anywhere
where there is usually family
is for me emptiness and suspicion
last night as we walked to the car
she grabbed my hand as much
for my own warmth as for hers
and still the wind spliced us
and now splitting wood
the crease of my thumb
bleeds from a splinter
of oak that I dig
with my pocketknife
sweat beads on my face
though it is cold
and the air crisp.
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