Say tissue, like a paper handkerchief
or impact, a punch in the gut.
Accident fits under your tongue,
or ties it.
Pain sticks in your throat,
grief you cannot swallow.
An afternoon after snow
and crows take off from the lone
oak in a field burdened by white.
Emptiness falls from sky
the birds cross in a dark cloud,
a loud scar of caw and wing
too quickly, easily slicing the air.
and it sounds too nice,
not close enough to loss.
You feel the bruises under your skin,
hear what you can’t forget,
know that this year
winter came too soon.