It was when the silver moonlight touched the freshly fallen snow that I saw you again. Out amongst the birches and pines. The frigid night. The dead of winter.
How it ate away at your blued lips and flesh. Gnawing down to the cold bone. Clinging to your lashes—painted white. Beneath the shower of snowflakes, I bid you farewell.
For the last time…
***
My garden of ghosts, how much it’s grown. Buried bones beneath the frozen earth. Lost. Forgotten.
Yet every winter, upon the first snowfall, still I find you. Like an airy perennial. Blossoming under the winter moon.
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