Father VII, Ariana D. Den Bleyker

February with traces of snow,
only a hint of white
or the suggestion of it.
What falls hangs faintly as a scar,
and the birds remaining throughout Winter
pinwheel across the early evening sky
lacking song.

  Their music hangs

hauntingly from my jagged
memory, as the fading sun
tries to warm the ice, me,
attempts to shine ten times
more brilliant in an uneasy sky.

Though I pry

apart the coming night, I
can’t hold this season tight enough,
can’t harness this weathered feeling,
can’t bring you home to me.

When you begin to speak,

the sound of it is as cool and blue
as the snow now sinking so slowly
no one notices but me.

I open my mouth.

Taste of it.

Remember something beautiful
you once sang, the melody loud as nails.