December

You punish me with guilt

as we stumble through silence

and flooded fields.

My bandaged pride

humbled by a stile,

feet puzzled by the mud,

as we follow bruises of horseshoes

to the stream.

 

The sky is as blanched

as your face.

Shards of branch lie snapped,

by a stream

that cuts through houses.

 

We pause for a runner

sewing the bushes,

white sleeved with cotton legs.

Two men pass,

speed and disappear

into the stem of their breath.

 

We come to one last stile

where you let me help you

and the cloud cracks for a moment,

and our hands briefly forgive

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