A Colder Spring

With the coming winter we spoke far less.
You wanted something more than us.
I watched the new chill frost the air,
the snowflakes quiver their signal dance,
spin gradually down to their dying ground,
melting so fast they seemed never there.
That turned me west and you went east,
our momentum meant we’d not turn back.
The writer in me could read all the signs,
the seer in you followed beckoning times,
two spirits fluttering toward a colder spring.
In the land of the dead no one can know,
who’s ghosting whom, it’s too hard to tell.
In the land of the living it’s easier to see,
when the final fade came, it was clearly me.