I opened the door to a late summer snow
Cold recoil of my naked flesh.
The sun was pale with frost, and a
white sky was falling on ripening fruit.
Your outline on the garden bench,
a photo of her in your hands.
I walked toward, holding all
my questions in begging bowls.
You glanced, grief-eyed,
a moment's meet, then stood
and turned to go. I ran
to where my name was never called,
the proof of you already dusting over.
I sat where you had sat, and waited
for the snow to clothe my shame.
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