Withdrawal gains relief for a migrant. What remains is steeped in the patience that the migrant couldn’t find enough of. Withdrawal forces us to describe a world from memory, and leaves us wondering if we aren’t missing something that we never took the chance to know.
WINTER
The waxing gibbous watches while lonely shadows navigate
In parsimonious haste.
From stiff limbs, trembling trees loose their leaves
To a winter that will not heal.
Somewhere, beneath the frozen pond, finally settles the dust
From last spring’s spidery lust –
That now awaits, under this dimly lit moonscape,
The virgin breath to rejuvenate.