The moon in this season has incredibly long fingers

Like chopstick-shaped driftwood weathered on the shore

Those fingers are picking over my bones, white bones

Long, white, driftwood fingers

My bones strewn everywhere from mountain range to mountain range

Across many trails and journeys 

Where my heart was so sure a home would be found

A respite from the razors of the wind 

But left out all mushy and vulnerable in the name of hope

An inexhaustible winter

Laid down my body, bone by bone

And now the moon

Picking them like an instrument 

As if some magic could wake them

As if some song could dance them in this cold, cold wind 

And start my heart singing again with all these stars.


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