There are Those

Murdered in the forest eves,
their bodies strewn about
the underbrush thick with nettles.

Snow falls lightly on the graveless,
graven gray surcoats in tatters.

Souls sublimate in the moonlight.

Thus are we--unmarked.

Winter

One round white face, two/three
Days, ninety. Three months
since summer murdered those
cold tendrils. And now for nine,
resurrected again, she'll ache
down drizzle, ever, ever, ever