I write within the somber months of winter
where skies become devoid of light
and a sharp pang that calls solemnly beckons the cool months that follow-
ones which so frequently forget to sprinkle a layering of frost
upon the quiet suburban streets
which light up so ember like
when the clock strikes just past supper.
I call these the hollowing days,
for
what else do our feeble bodies become
when warmth escapes our marrow
and is swallowed by the moss that festers beneath these icy paths.
Our wrists rattle like the silver spoons
found in old china cupboards-
ties together by weak joints
as the knees go shaking on cobblestone streets.
Our shadows we conform to
as the winter wind grasps us by the shoulders
and tickles the ivory bones of deleterious skeletons.
These hollowing days:
these darkened days
that live forever in the black of our pupils-
coming out
when called upon by the gray skies
that filter above us.