december now.       sky scarred with

traces of snow, cutouts

of birdwings            negative space.

sister calls from orlando,

            our childhood home          rustling in the spaces

between her sighs

the vibrato of her voice rushes through my

            tired floorboards

weighted and travel-worn with so

many years of yearning.

a bird crosses oceans and flies over

            time zones without realizing. there

is a strange melancholy here.

rest me close and rest me gentle.

            if i sleep before i wake, turn back

the clocks, bury

            these thoughts, burn

these bones and scatter

                  them in an orchard     

        so many years away.