year turns yellow, lingers,

twisting the thin threads of my hair

between sticky fingers;

summer’s promise
yielding to the pressure

of ten degrees too few.

soul sickens

just a little

in the face of another winter

bitter and sterile;

blue shadows etched

over what was once white skin

and green grass.

sleep, sleep;

forget this realm

of might-have-beens

as spider-webs gather between the toes

of last season’s dream.