Fingers skim the dripping limbs
that line the path. It’s cold again.
She tramples a thousand red cloaks
that litter the yards and vanish beneath
the mist. Her dangling bootlaces
dance in wintery pools.
A vague warm feeling crosses her
when she stops to watch the mail truck
splashing down the way. Her caramel
hair smells of slain pine while the cold
renders her face afire. She studies a
mailbox wrapped with garland.
It mutely wonders if it looks cute.
Somewhere a cat is talking with
a door. She tries to paste some
red petals to the branches but
the trees refuse them. She stares
into the grey and ponders the puddles.
Her limbs drip in the forest, an
awkward alabaster sculpture
that smells of winter pine.