Winter Voices

The afterbirth,
a raft in tropical waters
leading away from the volcano,
approaching backward
the delta pliant with new growth
swaying, moist, mossy.

The snow covered lake in the trees
another life,
naked in the piled crystals
snow angels
left for the fish
the blessing shielding the soreness
of a long winter
now being shed,
in the doip
of the drip
from the wooden oars.

"She's gone," She's gone,"
rings in my ears
Another season past,
another reason composted,
a possibility to be recycled.

"You can't kiss it,"
I hear now,
as I lean
toward shore,
rocking the boat,
ready to fall in
before I reach land.